THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


-   


$4li}psoi}, 


THIS,  THAT,  AND  THE  OTHER. 


ELLEN  LOUISE   CHANDLER, 


"  There 's  rosemary,  that 's  for  remembrance  , 
And  there 's  pansies,  that 's  for  thoughts  ; 
*      *      *      And  there 's  a  daisy.'' 




WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  BOWSE 


FIFTH     EDITION. 

BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND    COMPANY. 

• 

NEW  YORK:  JAMES  C.  DERBY. 

1854. 


'# . 

*  < 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON    &    CO., 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Stereotyped  by 

HOBART  &  ROBBINS, 

New  England  Type  and  Stereotype  Foundry, 


WHOSE  EYES   WEBB  FIRST  TO   SMILE   UPON   MY 

INFANT  SLUMBERS,  WHOSE   LIPS   WERB  FIRST  TO   OFFEE  ME  ENCOURAGEMENT, 
AND  IN   WHOSE  HEART  I   HAVE  NEVEE  FAILED  TO   FIND  A   HOME, 

Cfjta  mlitst  of  mn  (Sorts 

"f  IS  INSCRIBED,   WITH  A   DAUGHTER'S   LOVE. 


'  1125437 


WITH  what  aim  I  have  gathered  these  sketches  into  a 
volume,  I  can  hardly  say.  I  certainly  have  never  aspired 
to  be  a  professional  book-maker,  and  my  highest  ambition 
is  to  find  friends  among  my  readers;  those  who  dream 
over  my  pages  beneath  the  trees  in  summer,  or  turn  the 
leaves  beside  the  cottage  hearth  in  winter. 

I  have  not  borrowed  from  the  dead  world  of  books.  I 
have  only  grouped  together  such  fancies  as  the  country 
sunshine  writes  out  upon  the  meadow-grass,  or  the  wild 
birds  sing  to  each  other  while  they  build  their  nests.  I 
have  always  found  the  world  so  kind,  I  do  not  doubt 
that  there  are  some  who  will  remember  that  my  flowers  are 
only  violets  of  the  spring,  and  will  pardon  me  when  they 
fail  to  find  the  splendor  of  summer  or  the  mellow  ripeness 
of  autumn. 


'iP^^* 


* 

"  * 


*  *  * 

*  I     *  4 


CONTENTS. 


THE  OEPHAN'S  TASK, 11 

HEAVEN'S  CHANCERY, 37 

CHANGE, 41 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  SNOW-FALL, 43 

"I  CANNOT  MAKE  HIM  DEAD," 46 

CHILDREN, • ..49 

THE  ANTHEM, 52 

POOB  MAUD, 54 

"  THEEE,  NELL,  THE  HAT  's  IN," 70 

DELIA  :  A  LAMENT, 72 

REVERIES, 75 

CHRISTIANA  :  OR,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT, 82 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WIND, 102 

POOR  AND  FRIENDLESS, 104 

KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL, 107 

EIGHTEEN  TO-DAY, 141 

To  A  PICTURE  OF  KATE, 142 

CIS-ATLANTIC  BORIOBOOLA-GHA, 145 

SPRING-TIME  OF  THE  HEART, 148 

MABEL  MURRAY'S  BALL-DRESS, 152 

A  LOVE  SONG, 156 

THE  FIRST  QUARREL, 157 

To  A  PICTURE  OF  NATALIE, 162 

SILENCE  ADAMS, 163 

ONLY  A  PAUPER, 179 


X  CONTENTS. 

«j 

THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD, 181 

HOME  AGAIN, 183 

ONLY  AN  OLD  MAID, 186 

LEXORE, 189 

SEPULCHRES, 190 

SWEET  ELLEN  ADAIR, 192 

A  WALK  IN  MAY-TIME, 4 210 

HUSH! 212 

"  AN  EMPTY  POCKET  's  THE  WORST  or  CRIMES," 217 

WOOED  AND  WON, 219 

OUB  LADY  UNA, 222 

VALERIE, 223 

JUNE-DAY  DREAMINGS, 232 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  MOON, 235 

THE  BISHOP'S  BRIDE, 239 

MY  BLIND  BABY, 245 

A  HuSKING-PABTY  AT  RYEFIELD, 247 

SPRING-TIME  RAIN, 264 

MY  AUNT  PATIENCE, 266 

DOMESTIC  ECONOMY 281 

LAURA  TO  PETRARCH, 284 

THE  SCOTCH  PASTOR'S  BRIDE, 286 

THE  NEW-YEAR'S  NIGHT  OF  THE  UNHAPPY, 297 

FANCIES  FOR  LOULIE, 300 

AGXES  LEE, 302 

MY  WIFE, 340 

GRACEE'S  SNOWDROPS, 342 

BEHOLD,  I  MISS  THEE,  LOVE, 346 

THE  SECRET  MARRIAGE, 348 

THE  Two  GRAVES, 369 

MALE  COQUETTES, 372 

ALIXE, 374 

BESSIE  GREEN, 400 


*•* 


' 

THE  ORPHAN'S    TASK. 

"  0,  MOTHER,  it 's  so  cold  here !  I  shall  freeze,  I  know  I  shall ; 
and,  mother,  just  see  how  blue  the  baby's  hands  are !  You  won't 
stay  in  this  dreadful  place  much  longer,  will  you  ?  And  say, 
mother,  why  don't  father  come  ?  " 

Yes,  that  was  it — "  Why  don't  father  come  ?  "  Marion  Les 
lie  had  asked  herself  that  question  a  great  many  times,  since 
the  sunny  morning  when  her  noble  husband  had  clasped  her  to 
his  heart,  two  long  years  before,  with  words  of  blessing,  and 
joined  his  good  ship  for  a  sis  months'  voyage.  Weary,  weary 
days  and  nights  she  had  asked  herself, "  Why  don't  he  come  ?  " 
and  the  wind  and  rain  sobbed  through  the  linden-trees,  and  gave 
no  answer  but  a  wail.  Six  months  after  his  departure,  Marion 
had  clasped  to  her  breast  a  babe,  on  which  its  father's  eyes  had 
never  rested;  and  a  faint,  sweet  smile  rippled  round  her  red 
lips,  as  she  thought  how  he  would  take  them  in  his  arms,  and 
bless  them,  the  mother  and  the  child.  But  weeks  were  braided 
into  months,  and  yet  he  came  not.  There  was  a  rumor,  very 
brief,  and  very  terrible,  that  his  ship  was  wrecked,  and  all  on 
board  perished;  but  Marion  never  believed  it, — how  should  she  ? 
—  and  still  she  sat  there  in  the  cottage,  singing  to  her  babe  some 
times,  and  sometimes  weeping,  and  asking  herself,  between  her 

bs,  why  it  was  her  husband  did  not  come. 


12  TILE  OBPHAN'S  TASK. 

But  there  was  a  change,  at  length — an  execution  In  the  house. 
At  first,  Marion  looked  on  listlessly,  neither  caring  nor  understand 
ing  ;  but  at  last  the  truth  broke  on  her  with  a  sudden  shock, 
and  she  arose.  They  were  beggars.  She  understood  that ;  and 
then  it  was  beautiful  to  see  the  triumph  of  her  woman's  love  and 
courage.  She  went  forth  with  her  three  fatherless  children,  — 
her  daughter  Blanche,  her  little  Charley,  and  the  baby  not  yet 
three  months  old, — forth  from  the  smiling  cottage,  out  into  the 
cold,  desolate  world. 

It  was  a  beautiful  home  from  which  she  was  driven — the  home 
of  her  bridal,  the  home  of  her  wife-hood,  whither  her  hus 
band  had  borne  her,  with  the  orange-blossoms  in  her  hair,  ere 
the  suns  of  seventeen  bright,  summery  years  had  woven  their  radi 
ance  in  her  golden  curls.  There,  for  fourteen  years,  they  had 
lived  and  loved,  with  only  the  one  sorrow  of  his  necessary 
absences;  for  Marion  was  a  sailor's  bride.  She  had  been  a 
spoiled  and  petted  child,  and  a  still  more  petted  wife ;  and  now 
that  misfortune  had  come  upon  her,  she  was  too  proud  to 
suffer  in  the  pleasant  country-town  among  those  who  had  known 
and  loved  them  in  their  brightest  days.  And  this  was  why,  hav 
ing  collected  what  money  she  was  able  to  command  from  the 
sale  of  her  few  valuables,  she  gathered  her  stricken  ones  around 
her  one  morning,  and  departed,  —  no  one  knew,  and  only  a  few 
cared,  whither.  Other  hands  lit  the  hearth-fire  at  Maple  Cot 
tage,  and  its  rosy  light  beamed  upon  happy  faces ;  and  there 
came  no  shadow  of  those  suffering  ones  who  had  once  lived  and 
loved  there,  to  dim  the  picture. 

Marion  Leslie  found  a  refuge,  with  her  children,  in  one  of  the 
humblest  of  the  many  cheap  boarding-houses  of  New  York. 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  13 

For  a  long  time  she  could  procure  no  employment,  but  at  length, 
by  dint  of  persevering  inquiry,  she  obtained  regular  work  from  a 
cheap  clothing-store  in  the  neighborhood.  But  they  had  sunk 
from  one  privation  to  another,  until  eighteen  months  after  their 
coming  to  New  York  (the  time  at  which  our  brief  sketch  opens), 
when  their  home,  if  home  it  could  be  called,  was  but  a  miserable 
attic,  in  Paradise-square.  Marion  had  grown  very  thin,  but 
there  was  a  wild  lustre  in  her  blue  eyes,  a  hectic  flush  on  her 
pale  cheek ;  and  you  could  not  have  met  her,  without  a  start  of 
surprise,  at  finding,  robed  in  patches,  and  dwelling  in  misery,  the 
very  embodiment  of  some  painter's  conception  of  a  Saint  Cecilia. 
She  sat  there,  bending  over  her  rickety  pine  table,  and  stitching 
wearily,  while  the  baby  lay  sleeping  on  a  couch  of  straw  at  her 
feet;  and  the  little  Charley,  clinging  to  her  robe,  clasped  his 
stiffened  fingers  together,  and  strove  not  to  cry.  So  early  do 
the  children  of  the  poor  learn  patience. 

At  last  the  mother  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  drew  her  little 
boy  upon  her  knee.  "  Charley,"  she  said,  "  mother's  dear  Char 
ley,  are  you  so  very  cold  ?  Well,  sister  Blanche  will  come  home 
presently,  and  then  Charley  shall  be  warmed  and  fed.  Mother's 
little  boy  can  wait,  can't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  can  wait.  1  don't  freeze  much  now,  do  you, 
mother  ?  "  and  the  little  fellow  wound  his  thin,  cold  arms  round 
the  weary  woman's  neck,  and  kissed  away  the  tears  that  were 
streaming  down  her  thin  cheeks.  And  then  the  door-latch  was 
raised  softly,  and  a  young  girl  of  fourteen  tripped  lightly  in. 
Spite  of  all  the  disguises  of  wretchedness,  spite  of  the  clumsy 
shoes,  the  coarse,  patched  garments,  and  the  half-frozen  fingers, 
Blanche  Leslie  was  beautiful.  Hers  was  not  the  mere  beauty  of 


14  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

feature  and  complexion,  through  which  looks  oftentimes  deform 
ity  of  soul ;  but  it  was  that  perfect  and  harmonious  beauty, 
which  only  one  painter  in  a  cycle  of  centuries  can  shadow  forth. 
Her  long,  golden  curls  floated  down  over  her  spiritual  face,  like 
rippling  waves  of  sunlight ;  and  her  features  were  pure  and  clas 
sical,  as  the  Madonna  of  Thorwaldsen.  A  glad  smile  illuminated 
her  face  as  she  entered  the  apartment,  and,  going  up  to  her 
mother,  she  exhibited,  with  eager  interest,  two  twenty-five  cent 
pieces. 

"Only  see,  dear  mother,"  she  cried,  joyfully,  "wasn't  Mr. 
Green  good  ?  Here  are  two  shillings  he  owed  you  for  work, 
and  here  are  two  shillings  more,  that  he  just  made  me  a  present 
of;  and  he  spoke  to  me  so  gently,  mother  dear,  and  put  his  hand 
upon  my  head,  and  drew  my  curls  through  his  fingers,  just  as 
father  used  to,  long  ago ;  and  then  he  said  it  was  a  shame  for  one 
BO  delicate  as  you  to  have  to  do  such  work,  and  for  a  child  like 
me,  too ;  — that  it  must  not  be,  and  he  could  put  me  in  a  way  of 
doing  something  better ;  and  he  said  I  must  not  let  you  tire 
yourself  with  coming  to  the  shop  any  more ;  that  I  must  always 
come  for  you.  Was  n't  he  good,  mother  ?  " 

"  God  is  good,  my  child,"  said  Marion,  solemnly,  and,  for  a 
moment,  she  drew  the  girl's  fair  head  to  her  bosom.  "  Now,  go 
darling,"  she  said,  smiling  through  her  tears,  "  go  and  get  some 
fagots,  and  a  loaf  of  bread,  for  these  poor  children  are  almost 
starved  and  frozen." 

And  as  Blanche  left  the  room  Mrs.  Leslie  sighed  bitterly.  0, 
is  not  suspicion  one  of  the  most  blighting  curses  of  poverty  ? 
Marion  had  striven  to  teach  her  daughter  faith  in  the  beauty  and 
purity  of  human  nature,  but  painfully  was  the  conviction  forced 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  15 

upon  lier  mind,  that  hereafter  the  widow's  child  must  learn  a 
different  lesson.  Blanche  was  too  poor,  and  too  beautiful,  to  be 
spared  the  luxury  of  trust.  Grafton  Green  was  a  plodding, 
scheming  man  of  the  world,  and  not  the  one  to  give  even  two 
shillings  from  a  pure  motive  of  disinterested  kindness ;  and 
Marion  resolved  that,  no  matter  how  much  she  was  needed  at 
home,  or  how  much  she  suffered,  she  must  be  the  only  one  here 
after  to  visit  the  rich  man's  clothing-store. 

Another  year  passed,  and  still  the  wretched  family  lived  on,  in 
the  miserable  attic  in  Paradise-square.  And  yet  they  were  not 
wholly  wretched,  not  wholly  miserable.  There  was  faith  and 
prayer,  and  much  love,  beneath  their  humble  roof;  and  the  baby, 
the  little  Ida  Leslie,  was  growing  up  fair  and  sweet  enough  to 
have  gladdened  any  heart  not  wholly  broken.  She  was  a  per 
petual  joy  to  her  mother,  for  only  in  her  face  could  she  see  an 
ever-present  semblance  of  her  lost  Willie.  Blanche  and  Charley 
had  Marion's  own  blue  eyes,  and  golden  curls ;  but  Ida's  heavy 
tresses  were  black  as  night,  and  her  large,  dark  eyes  were  wild 
and  passionate  as  an  Italian's  ; — they  were  Willie's  own.  But 
there  was  more  sorrow  than  joy  in  the  lonely  roof.  The  pain 
in  the  mother's  side  was  growing  more  constant  and  severe; 
the  hectic  flush  was  deepening  on  her  cheek,  and  slowly,  but 
surely,  she  knew  her  feet  were  entering  the  path  that  leads  down 
to  the  country  of  the  great  departed,  "  into  the  silent  land." 

For  many  a  month  Blanche  had  been  the  only  messenger  to 
the  clothing-store  of  Grafton  Green ;  and  whether  it  was  that 
the  unsoiled  innocence  of  the  sweet  young  girl  had  subdued,  by 
its  silent  power,  even  his  wicked  and  worldly  heart ;  or  whether 
it  was  that  he  was  waiting  for  the  mother's  death,  that  he  might 


16  TUB  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

be  more  secure  of  success,  he  had,  during  all  this  time, 
treated  Blanche  with  the  greatest  respect.  But  the  kindest 
friend  the  lone  ones  had  as  yet  found  was  a  tall,  graceful, 
beautiful  woman,  living  by  herself,  on  the  lower  floor  of 
the  house.  Marion  did  not  know  her  business,  or  whence 
came  the  means  to  purchase  her  welcome  and  delicate  offerings 
of  fruit  and  flowers;  but  she  never  dreamed  of  doubting  the 
stranger's  purity,  and  had  learned  to  love  her  with  a  sister's 
fondness.  "  There  comes  Lady,"  said  the  little  Ida,  one  day, 
when  the  woman  entered ;  and  Marion,  looking  up,  with  a  sweet 
smile,  said,  "  Will  you  not  let  us  have  some  other  name  to  call 
you  by?" 

"  Clara  was  the  name  I  bore  when  I  was  young  and  happy," 
Baid  the  stranger,  sadly ;  and  from  that  time  the  little  Ida  called 
her  "Lady  Clara;"  and  in  truth  the  name  suited  well  the  proud, 
statuesque  style  of  her  faded  but  still  regal  beauty. 

"  I  am  going  to  die,  Lady  Clara,"  said  Marion,  solemnly,  one 
day,  when  the  little  Ida  was  sleeping  on  the  stranger's  lap,  and 
Charley  had  gone  on  an  errand  with  his  sister  Blanche. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "and  I  have  long  been  wishing  to  make 
a  proposal  to  you.  I  am  an  actress.  I  presume,  Mrs.  Leslie, 
you  have  looked,  as  I  once  did,  on  actresses,  with  holy  horror.  I 
think,  however,  you  already  know  me  well  enough  to  believe  that 
my  life  has  been  free  from  crime.  I  have,  indeed,  been  unfor 
tunate,"  she  continued,  while  her  finely-chiselled  upper  lip  curled 
with  a  half-sneer,  "  and  there  are  those  in  the  world  to  whom 
suffering  and  misfortune  are  the  worst  of  crimes.  My  story 
has  not  been  a  singular  one.  I  was  born  in  the  highest 
circle  of  metropolitan  aristocracy.  I  was  an  only  child,  and  my 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  17 

mother  died  when  I  was  very  young.  My  education  was  super 
ficial  ;  that  is,  I  was  required  to  learn  only  such  things  as  I 
pleased ;  and  I  confined  my  studies  chiefly  to  the  modern  lan 
guages  and  music,  of  which  I  was  passionately  fond.  The  legit 
imate  result  of  such  a  self-willed  course  of  training  was  a  run 
away  marriage  with  a  handsome  but  dissolute  soldier ;  and  yet  I 
loved  him.  0  God,  how  I  did  love  him ! "  and  the  proud  woman 
clasped  her  white  hands  across  her  brow,  and  wept  for  a  brief 
moment  of  tempestuous  agony,  and  then,  with  a  firm  voice,  she 
proceeded.  "  It  was  not  a  twelvemonth  before  my  husband 
wearied  of  his  plaything,  and  left  me.  I  thanked  God  then 
that  I  was  not  a  mother ;  but  I  have  thought  since  it  might 
have  been  better  if  there  had  been  a  childish  voice  to  call  me 
back  to  life.  Already  my  poor  father  had  died,  and  I  took 
to  my  heart  the  knowledge  that  I  had  brought  his  gray  hairs  to 
the  grave.  Soon  after  his  death,  a  will  was  produced — though  I 
was  always  doubtful  of  its  authenticity — endowing  his  brother's 
sons  with  all  his  vast  fortune.  I  do  not  know  as  the  will  could 
have  been  set  aside ;  I  surely  would  not  have  questioned  it ; 
for  I  was  far  too  proud  to  go  back  among  the  circles  I  had 
adorned  in  other  days,  as  a  deserted  wife ;  and  I  bore  my  griefs 
alone,  as  best  I  might.  At  first,  I  strove  to  support  myself,  as 
you  have  done,  by  needle-work.  You  know  what  a  weary,  tor 
turing,  slow-dividing  of  soul  and  body  that  is ;  and  soon  I  began 
to  loathe  existence  most  intensely.  At  last,  I  sought  an  engage 
ment  at  a  third  or  fourth  rate  theatre,  and  my  offer  was  accepted 
gladly.  I  am  told  that,  if  I  had  had  ambition,  I  might  hava 
risen  to  be  a  queen  of  tragedy ;  but  I  had  none, 

"  I  would  not  go  upon  the  boards  of  a  first-class  theatre,  lest 


18  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

should  perchance  be  recognized  by  those  who  had  known  me  in 
happier  days ;  and  even  where  I  am,  I  would  only  take  the  least 
conspicuous  parts.  I  have  chosen  this  ruinous,  tumble-down 
habitation,  because  it  suits  both  my  altered  taste  and  my  altered 
means ;  but  I  have  managed  to  surround  myself  with  many  com 
forts,  and,  thank  God,  I  have  preserved,  unsoiled,  the  purity  of 
my  heart  and  life. 

"  And  now,  Mrs.  Leslie,  I  have,  as  I  said,  a  proposal  to  make 
to  you.  I  have  seen,  for  a  long  time,  your  anxiety  about  Blanche; 
nor  do  I  wonder  at  it.  But  Blanche  is  strong-principled,  and 
strong-minded  beyond  her  age.  Now,  if  you  will  trust  her  to 
me,  I  propose  to  make  her  an  actress.  She  can  soon  take  a 
higher  rol&  of  characters  than  I  do,  and  will  be  able  to  support 
her  brother  and  sister.  I  know  you  will  think  it  a  hard  choice 
between  this  and  starvation.  I  know  your  imagination  will  even 
exaggerate  the  trials  and  temptations  of  this  career  ;  but  think  a 
moment,  —  can  any  other  path  be  more,  nay,  can  any  other  path 
be  as  much  exposed  to  temptation,  as  that  of  a  young  and  beau 
tiful  sewing-girl,  whose  scanty  pittance  hardly  keeps  her  above 
absolute  want,  and  whose  very  business  exposes  her  in  a  thousand 
ways  to  the  pursuit  of  the  unprincipled  and  licentious  ?  Then 
there  is  one  more  consideration ;  —  as  an  actress,  Blanche  need 
not  despair  of  finding  time  enough  to  become,  at  least,  respecta 
bly  educated ;  while,  should  she  grow  up  a  seamstress,  you  are 
aware  such  a  hope  would  be  the  height  of  absurdity.  Blanche 
is  well  enough  while  you  live,  —  I  would  not  have  her  situation 
changed  at  present ;  but  I  know  it  is  your  conviction  that  you 
cannot  stay  to  guard  her  long ;  and,  not  even  though  she  were 
starving,  would  I  say  to  her,  '  Blanche,  come  with  me  to  the 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  19 

theatre,'  unless  I  could  also  add,  '  Blanche,  my  advice  has  your 
mother's  sanction.'  Shall  I  say  it  ?  " 

"  Leave  me  for  a  few  moments,  good,  kind  friend,"  was  the 
reply,  "  and  then  I  will  answer  you  ; "  and,  laying  the  little  Ida 
gently  down,  the  actress  glided  from  the  room.  Left  to  her 
self,  Marion  Leslie  knelt  and  prayed,  long  and  fervently, — 
prayed  as  only  an  anxious,  suffering  mother  can  pray.  She 
looked  forward,  with  strained  and  aching  eyes,  into  the  future ; 
she  saw  the  place  of  thorns  over  which  her  loved  one's  tender 
feet  must  tread,  and  she  prayed  for  strength  to  decide  aright. 
At  last,  as  she  heard  the  returning  footsteps  of  her  friend,  she 
rose  from  her  knees,  and,  with  a  faint  smile,  whispered  — 

"  Yes,  I  have  decided.  You  may  give  my  Blanche  her 
mother's  sanction  and  blessing  on  whatever  course  you  approve. 
I  leave  her  in  your  care,  and,  when  I  am  gone,  deal  gently  with 
her,  for  the  sake  of  the  dead." 

"  I  accept  the  trust,"  said,  very  solemnly,  she  whom  the  child 
called  "  Lady  Clara  ;  "  and,  in  a  moment  more,  Blanche  entered. 

"  Come  hither,  darling,"  said  the  mother,  fondly,  holding  out 
her  thin  hand  to  Blanche ;  and  Charley  climbed  upon  her  knee, 
and  Blanche  knelt  down  by  her  mother's  side. 

"  Blanche,  dearest,  you  have  been  a  good  and  faithful  child 
to  me,  and  God  will  bless  you,  now,  when  I  am  gone,  and 
forever." 

"You  gone,  sweet  mother  '  "  and  a  look  of  mingled  grief  and 
terror  drifted  up  to  Blanche's  clear,  blue  eyes. 

"  Yes,  darling,"  —  and  Marion  took  in  her  hand  the  length  of 
her  fair  child's  golden  curls,  —  "  yes,  darling,  the  wild-flowers 
of  another  spring-time  will  blow  above  your  mother's  nameless 


20  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

grave,  and  my  little  ones  will  be  God's  orphan  children  then ! 
No,  no,  Blanche,  darling,  treasure,  don't  weep  so  wildly  !  —  I  'in 
very  weak,  Blanche;  I  can't  bear  it."  And  the  brave  girl  strug 
gled  with  herself  till  moans  subsided  to  sobs,  and  sobs  to  quiet 
tears,  and  then  her  mother  continued :  "It  would  be  sinful  to 
mourn  so  for  me,  my  darling ;  for  I  am  going  home  to  Jesus.  I 
may  stay  with  you  for  some  time  yet,  but  I  must  go  when  He 
calls  me,  and  then  Clara  will  take  care  of  you." 

The  next  morning  Blanche  awoke  just  as  the  first  sun-rays  were 
brightening  the  attic  windows.  The  poor  children  had  crept  early 
to  bed  the  night  before,  for  they  had  no  money  to  buy  lights  or 
fuel,  and  Blanche  could  not  carry  home  the  work  they  had  com 
pleted  till  the  morning.  It  had  been  a  bitter  cold  night,  but 
Blanche,  with  the  little  Charley  in  her  arms,  had  slept  soundly. 
When  the  sunlight  flashed  upon  the  windows,  she  started  up  in 
alarm,  to  see  how  late  it  was,  and,  hurrying  on  her  scanty  sup 
ply  of  raiment,  she  glanced  at  the  low  couch  of  straw  where  her 
mother  lay  sleeping.  The  tears  came  to  her  eyes  as  she  whis 
pered,  "  Poor,  dear  mamma,  she  is  so  ill !  She  sleeps  late  this 
morning,  and  I  guess  I  '11  carry  this  work  home  before  I  wake 
her ; "  and  then,  gathering  up  the  work  into  a  bundle,  she  stept 
softly  to  her  mother's  pallet,  to  give  her  one  gentle  kiss  before 
she  left  her.  God  of  the  fatherless !  The  lips  to  which  she 
pressed  her  own  were  cold  and  pale  as  marble.  Marion  Leslie 
was  dead ! 

Another  meek  victim  "  led  as  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter ; " 
another  sacrifice  offered  up  to  the  mighty  Moloch  of  trade,  and 
that  iron  custom  which  closes  to  a  woman  the  avenues  of 
healthy  and  respectable  employments :  another  soul  gone  up 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  21 

before  its  Maker,  crying  out  for  vengeance  against  the  mighty 
of  the  land ! 

There  are,  who  think  death  steals  into  the  habitations  of  the 
poor  almost  in  the  guise  of  an  angel  of  light ;  that,  because  their 
paths  are  hedged  about  with  troubles  and  choked  up  with  thorns, 
the  echo  of  the  familiar  foot-fall  is  not  missed ;  that,  because  the 
rain  and  storm  beat  upon  their  heads,  the  rain  of  sorrow  fails  to 
fall  upon  the  grave  of  the  departed ;  but  those  who  read  the 
"  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor  "  will  trace  another  record. 
There  were  tears,  and  wailings,  and  sorrow,  in  the  tumble-down 
house  in  Paradise-square,  when  the  body  of  Marion  Leslie  was 
borne  forth  to  the  burial.  The  fair  hair  banded  across  her  fore 
head  was  wet  with  tears ;  and  it  was  as  if  she  wrenched  out, 
and  carried  away  with  her,  other  hearts  beside  her  own.  And 
why  not  ?  If  all  things  are  bright  around  us,  there  is  less  room 
for  the  shadow  to  fall.  The  difference  is  between  taking  his 
eingle  sun-ray  from  some  lone  prisoner  in  dungeon-walls,  or 
leaving  one  beam  the  less  to  brighten  the  splendors  of  the  royal 
palace. 

It  was  a  week  after  the  funeral,  when  one  morning  Clara 
reminded  the  sorrowing  Blanche  of  the  bundle  of  work  not  yet 
carried  home  to  the  clothing-store  of  Grafton  Green. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  young  girl,  abstractedly ;  "  where  is  it  ? 
I  must  go  to  work,  I  know.  I  '11  take  it  now." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  actress,  "  and  I  will  go  with  you 
to  carry  it ;  "  and  she  robed  herself  in  a  costume  which,  to  the 
uninitiated  eyes  of  Blanche,  seemed  the  height  of  elegance. 
And,  in  truth,  she  looked  more  than  ever  worthy  of  her  title  — • 
"Lady  Clara"  —  when  the  heavy  folds  of  a  rich  and  costly 


22  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

^ 

mantle  fell  gracefully  about  her  tall  and  slender  figure,  and  her 
wrists  and  throat  were  muffled  in  soft  and  glossy  furs. 

"  Now,  Blanche,"  she  said,  when  she  had  completed  her  toilet, 
"  I  will  go  with  you ;  but  you  must  wait  till  a  moment  after 
I  have  gone  in,  and  not  on  any  account  appear  to  recognize 
me!" 

When  Blanche  entered  the  store,  she  was  surprised  to  see  the 
deference  accorded  by  the  clerks  to  her  richly-dressed  compan 
ion.  The  actress  stood  at  a  counter  at  the  further  end  of  the 
store,  turning  over,  with  an  air  of  fashionable  indifference,  some 
finely-stitched  collars  and  cuffs.  The  young  girl  entered  tim 
idly,  and,  stepping  up  to  Mr.  Green  himself,  she  said,  in  a  low, 
musical  tone,  "  Here  is  that  last  work,  sir.  Won't  you  please 
to  excuse  my  not  having  brought  it  home  before  ?  for  my  mother 
is  dead ! " 

A  strange  kind  of  expression  flitted  over  the  rich  man's  feat 
ures,  —  Blanche  thought  it  anger,  the  actress  called  it  triumph. 
"  I  should  be  glad  to  indulge  you,  if  I  could,  poor  child  !  "  he 
said,  with  a  strange  gentleness ;  "  but  I  must  treat  all  my  girls 
alike,  and  the  rule  is,  if  any  one  keeps  work  out  a  week,  it  must 
be  charged  to  them,  and  they  are  to  retain  it.  So,  you  see,  I  must 
charge  this  now,  Blanche,  —  twenty  shillings,  —  but  the  charge 
is  a  mere  matter  of  form ;  you  are  too  young  and  fair  to  suffer, 
and  I  '11  give  you  some  easy  work  to  do  now,  and  we  '11  settle 
about  that,  another  time." 

"  Blanche,"  said  Lady  Clara,  coming  forward,  "  I  expected 
this  —  trust  in  me,  poor  child !  Mr.  Green,  you  said  your 
charge  against  this  girl  was  twenty  shillings;  here  is  your 

money,  and  we  '11  just  make  you  a  present  of  the  garment,  to 

- 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  23 

* '        • « 

atone  for  your  disappointment,  Come,  Blanche;  wish  Mr. 
Grafton  Green  a  very  good-morning;  you  will  take  no  more 
work  from  his  establishment !  " 

Mr.  Grafton  Green  muttered  something  altogether  too  near  an 
oath  to  be  written  down  for  ears  polite,  and  the  actress  took  the 
fair  girl's  hand  in  hers,  and  left  the  "  establishment,"  with  a. 
patronizing  courtesy.  When,  at  length,  they  were  seated  with 
Charley  and  the  little  Ida  in  the  apartment  of  "  Lady  Clara," 
in  reply  to  Blanche's  tearful,  "  0,  Clara,  what  shall  I  do  ?  we 
shall  starve !  "  the  lady  unfolded  her  plan,  and  endorsed  it  with 
the  dead  mother's  sanction.  "  I  have  paid  up  for  your  miserable 
attic,  dear  Blanche,"  she  concluded,  "and  settled  up  accounts 
with  your  landlord.  I  have  been  laying  by  money  for  this  very 
thing,  Blanche,  and  now  you  shall  stay  with  me,  you  and  the 
little  ones,  until  you  can  do  better ;  and  I  will  support  you,  until 
you  can  support  yourself." 

And  thus  it  was,  climbing  up,  on  to  the  stage,  from  weary 
stepping-stones  of  toil,  and  want,  and  sorrow,  one  of  our  first 
actresses  made  her  debut.  "  You  have  nothing  to  do  now  but 
study,"  said  Clara,  when  the  preparatory  arrangements  were 
completed ;  and  Blanche  did  study,  as  none  can  but  those  who 
have  a  high  and  holy  motive.  She  had  not  adopted  her  pro 
fession  without  a  bitter  struggle, — not  until  every  other  door 
seemed  closed  against  her,  and  she  had  seemed  to  hear  her  dead 
mother's  voice,  out  of  the  grave,  calling  on  her  to  arise  and  toil  for 
the  children  so  sacredly  given  to  her  charge. 

It  was  her  highest  ambition  that  they,  for  whom  she  thus 
sacrificed  herself,  should  never  know  at  what  a  cost  the  flowers 
which  strewed  their  path  were  purchased.  While  they  were  yet 


24  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

BO  young,  it  was  very  easy  to  send  them  to  bed,  before  she  made 
her  toilet  for  the  theatre ;  and,  as  they  grew  older,  she  hoped  to 
be  able  to  take  a  higher  part,  and  so  acquire  the  means  to  send 
them  away  from  her  to  school.  Years  passed  on,  and  her  wishes 
were  accomplished.  At  twenty,  she  found  herself  promoted  to 
the  highest  characters  in  the  first  theatres,  and  she  had  the  satis 
faction  of  calling  home  her  little  sister  on  the  Sabbath,  and 
learning,  from  the  love  of  that  innocent  child-heart,  that  earth 
was  not  all  a  wilderness.  As  for  Charley,  he  was  sent  far  away, 
and  growing  hale  and  hearty,  as  his  sister  saw,  when  the  happy 
trio  assembled  with  Clara,  at  a  quiet,  rural,  country  boarding- 
house,  for  the  summer  vacation. 

At  twenty,  Blanche  Leslie  was  beautiful,  —  proudly  beau 
tiful.  Her  success  as  an  actress  had  been  almost  unex 
ampled,  for  one  so  young;  and  she  had  found  time  and 
means  to  secure  a  brilliant  education.  The  promise  of  her 
childhood  was  more  than  fulfilled.  Her  large,  radiant  blue 
eyes  revealed  the  gifted  soul  looking  through  them,  and  her 
complexion  was  fair  and  pure  as  the  finest  statuary.  Her 
figure  was  lofty  and  commanding,  tall,  and  with  sufficient  ful 
ness  to  be  graceful  as  a  vision ;  and  altogether  she  was  the 
most  magnificent  tragedienne  that  ever  appeared  upon  tho 
boards  of  New  York. 

And  now  there  dawned  another  dream  upon  her  life.  One 
night  there  came  behind  the  scenes  a  stranger,  whom  the  man 
ager  introduced  to  her  as  his  friend,  Lionel  Hunter.  It  was  to 
Blanche  like  a  revelation.  She  had  never  before  met  such  a 
man.  Her  acquaintance  was  limited  to  the  circle  of  the  green 
room,  and  no  one  had  hitherto  found  lodgment  in  her  heart  for 

fe 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  25 

more  than  a  passing  thought ;  but  this  man  —  this  Lionel 
Hunter ! 

You  might  not  have  thought,  at  the  first  glance,  that  he  was  a 
man  to  strike  a  lady's  fancy ;  but  I,  who  have  seen  and  known 
him,  tell  you  that  no  man  ever  came  so  near  realizing  my  con 
ceptions  of  the  divine  as  Lionel  Hunter.  I  never  looked  at  him, 
but  I  held  my  breath,  and  thought  of  those  old  times,  when 
the  sons  of  God  loved  the  daughters  of  men — when  there 
were  Titans  on  the  earth,  and  Nature,  our  primal  mother, 
wove  stars  in  her  dark  hair  for  her  bridal.  He  must  have 
been  at  least  six  feet  two  inches  in  height,  and  proportionately 
large.  His  face  resembled,  more  than  anything  else,  the  por 
traits  we  have  all  seen  of  Shakspeare.  He  was  handsomer  than 
the  portraits,  it  is  true ;  but  there  was  the  same  expansive  fore 
head,  the  same  indescribably  fascinating  eyes,  and  the  same 
sensuous  mouth,  with  its  expression  of  almost  infantile  sweetness. 
His  eyes  were  large  and  bright,  of  a  liquid  hazel,  and  hia 
chestnut-black  hair  curled  over  his  classical  head,  down  almost 
to  his  shoulders. 

"  My  friend,"  said  the  manager,  as  he  presented  him,  "  is  the 
author  of  the  last  new  play  we  brought  upon  the  stage;  and  he 
wishes  to  thank  you,  Miss  Leslie,  for  having  so  gloriously  per 
sonated  one  of  his  best  characters." 

And  then  he  took  Blanche's  little  hand  in  his  own ;  and  while 
it  lay  there,  fluttering  like  a  caged  humming-bird,  he  spoke  a 
few  low,  musical  words  of  praise  and  thanks,  which  brought 
the  rich  blood  flushing  to  the  fair  girl's  cheek,  as  it  had 
never  flushed  before.  That  night  he  walked  with  her  to  her 
home ;  for  she  and  "  Lady  Clara  "  had  removed  from  Paradise- 


26  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

square,  and  now  had  taken  pleasant  rooms  at  a  respectable 
hotel.  After  that,  Blanche  was  no  more  lonely.  Almost  daily 
Mr.  Hunter  would  meet  her  in  her  walks,  and  sometimes  accom 
pany  her  home. 

Then,  the  enthusiastic  girl  lived  on  the  memory  of  that  meet 
ing,  until  she  should  see  again  her  hero,  her  demi-god.  Some 
times  there  was  but  a  chance  interview  of  a  few  words,  and 
Bometimes  she  would  not  see  him  for  a  day ;  but  there  would  be 
a  quick  ring  at  the  door,  and  a  bouquet  of  flowers  left  for  Miss 
Leslie.  And  these  were  always  the  costliest  exotics,  or  heavy 
clusters  of  the  fragrant  climbing  roses,  with  long  stems  ;  so  that 
always  in  Blanche  Leslie's  parlor  was  summer,  and  the  breath 
of  flowers.  Perhaps  it  was  not  well  for  the  inexperienced  girl 
that  Lady  Clara's  voice  had  failed  her,  and  she  was  spending 
the  winter  in  the  country;  but  surely  never  before  had  life* 
seemed  half  so  bright. 

At  last,  Mr.  Hunter  came  often  to  her  rooms.  Another  of 
his  tragedies  was  to  be  produced,  and,  that  she  might  be  perfect 
in  her  part,  he  read  it  to  her  many  times  at  home.  Surely,  never 
was  another  voice  so  musical;  and  Blanche  could  not  refuse,  when 
the  play  was  over,  to  listen  to  yet  other  plays,  and  hear  the 
glorious  creations  of  the  master  dramatist  himself  made  vocal. 
It  was  the  day  before  Miss  Leslie's  last  engagement  previous  to 
the  summer  vacation,  and  once  more  Lionel  Hunter  sat  beside 
her  in  her  room.  Somehow  it  seemed  a  very  natural  thing, 
and  his  broad  breast  had  grown  to  be  the  customary  resting- 
place  for  her  sunny  head.  . 

He  sat  beside  her  now,  and  once  more  he  had  drawn  that  fair 
head  underneath  his  arm,  and  was  gazing  fondly  in  her  upturned 
. 

' ... 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  27 

face.  "  Blanche,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  deep,  musical  whis 
per, —  "Blanche,  darling,  tell  me  once  more  that  you  love  me. 
0,  dear  one,  my  life  has  been  a  weary  thing  sometimes ;  there 
have  been  dens  and  dark  places  in  it ;  but  you  have  walked 
beside  me  for  a  while,  and  my  path  has  grown  radiant  with  the 
glory  of  your  soul.  O,  Blanche,  Blanche,  best,  purest  half  of 
myself,  I  could  not  live  without  you  now! — tell  me  once  more 
that  you  love  me !  "  And  the  proud  man  paused,  and  bent  his 
face  to  catch  the  whispers  of  her  answer,  till  he  could  feel  her 
breath  warm  upon  his  cheek. 

There  was  truth,  and  passion,  and  tenderness,  in  the  girl's 
voice,  as  she  murmured,  "  0,  my  Lionel,  my  lion-hearted ! 
you  know  I  love  you  —  you  know  I  could  not  help  it." 

And  his  face  bent  lower  still,  as  once  more  he  said,  "And 
Blanche,  my  Blanche,  will  you  be  all  mine,  and  forever  ?  " 

"  Forever,"  was  the  faintly-whispered  reply ;  "  I  love  you, 
—  how  could  I  be  another's  ?  " 

"  And  you  will  not  love  me  less,  Blanche,  when  I  tell  you  I 
am  not  the  humble,  plodding  scribbler  you  have  thought,  but  a 
man  rich  in  fame  and  wealth,  whose  name  is  a  passport  to  the 
proudest  circles  in  the  land.  Can  you  be  proud  of  me,  Blanche 
darling,  and  not  love  me  less  ? " 

But  the  tears  gathered  slowly  in  the  young  girl's  eyes,  and 
trembled  on  the  heavy  lashes,  as  she  replied,  "  But  you,  Lionel ; 
if  this  be  so,  how  can  you  love  me  ?  Will  you  not  blush  when 
men  shall  say  your  wife  has  been  an  actress  ?  " 

"  Great  heavens,  Blanche !  have  you  been  deceived,  all  this 
time  ?  Did  you  think  I  meant  to  marry  you  ?  Why,  Blanche, 
that  would  be  certain  ruin.  Have  you  so  little  trust,  so  little 


28  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

faith  in  me,  that  you  think  I  would  be  more  true  to  you,  when 
Borne  old  priest  had  said  over  a  few  words  of  a  senseless  cere 
mony  ?  I  thought  you  loved  me.  Well,  no  matter,  Blanche ;  I 
was  deceived  —  I  can  bear  it  —  take  your  head  off  my  breast  — 
get  up,  and  go  away.  Why  don't  you  go  ?  In  Heaven's  name, 
what  are  you  staying  here  for  ? " 

"  Because  I  love  to  stay,  Lionel,  and  because  I  will  never  stay 
again.  0,  Lionel,  you  have  darkened  all  my  life  !  Why  did 
you  come  to  me,  with  your  bright,  bewildering  beauty  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  I  loved  you,  because  I  thought  your  heart 
was  not  that  of  a  stone,  but  a  woman.  Stay,  now ;  what  are  you 
getting  up  for  ?  Blanche,  sit  still !  " 

"  No,  I  shall  get  up  now,  and  you  will  go  and  leave  me  forever." 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing.  I  will  go  and  leave  you  till  to 
morrow,  and  then  I  '11  come  back,  and  say  <  Blanche,  will  you 
be  mine  ? ' "  and  he  rose,  and  walked  toward  the  door ;  but  turn 
ing,  ere  he  reached  it,  he  spread  out  his  arms,  and  said,  in  those 
low,  rich  tones  that  never  could  have  belonged  to  any  human 
voice  but  his,  "  Come  to  me,  Blanche  darling,  come  and  lay 
your  little  golden  head  upon  my  breast.  Who  else  can  shelter 
you  so  well  as  I  ?  You  have  said  that  I  was  your  world.  Be 
true  to  me,  then,  — true  to  your  own  soul,  clinging  even  now  to 
mine, — and  come  to  me.  Is  the  world  more  than  I  am,  Blanche  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  no,"  and  the  young  girl  shut  her  eyes,  and  clasped 
her  white  hands  across  them.  "  No,  sir,  but  God  is,  and  the 
voice  of  my  dead  mother  calling  to  me  out  of  her  grave !  Go, 
Mr.  Hunter!" 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  Blanche  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  I  shall  go 
away  and  never  see  you  any  more  —  that  you  will  no  more  live 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  29 

for  me,  nor  I  any  more  live  for  you  ?  That  we  are  to  be  nothing 
to  each  other,  any  more  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Hunter." 

He  walked  slowly  and  deliberately  back  again,  and  raised  her 
in  his  arms.  "  Look  at  me,  Blanche,  and  tell  me,  now,  do  you 
mean  to  say,  Go,  Lionel,  go,  and  never  look  upon  my  face 
again ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Hunter ;  I  mean  to  say  just  that :  —  Go,  and 
never  come  again,  and  in  mercy  go  quickly." 

"You  mean  to  say,  Go  and  come  again  to-morrow; — that  is 
my  reasonable  Blanche.  You  are  feverish  and  excited  now,  and 
would  indeed  be  best  alone ; "  and,  so  saying,  he  kissed  her 
gently,  released  her,  and  walked  to  the  door.  Then,  turning 
once  more,  he  said,  "  Good-by  till  to-morrow,  Blanche,  little 
one.  Let  me  see  you  happy,  then ! " 

It  was  two  o'clock,  the  next  afternoon,  when  Lionel  Hunter 
rang  at  the  door  of  Miss  Leslie's  boarding-house.  He  was  shown 
into  her  accustomed  sitting-room,  but  she  was  not  there.  He 
threw  himself  into  her  easy-chair,  and  lying  on  the  table  beside 
him  he  perceived  two  notes,  directed  in  a  light,  graceful  hand, 
which  he  recognized  but  too  well  —  the  one  to  him,  the  other  to 
the  manager  of  the  Broadway  theatre.  Eagerly  he  broke  the 
seal  of  the  one  superscribed  "  Lionel  Hunter,"  and  read  thus : 

"LIONEL:    When  your  hand  touches  this  sheet,  I  shall  be 

far  away.     It  is  two  hours  since  you  left  me,  and  I  have  been 

sitting  here  all  the  while,  in  a  kind  of  stupor.     I  have  loved  you 

very  fondly,  Lionel,  and  there  is  no  blame  for  you  in  my  heart 

3* 


30  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

\ 

now,  only  sorrow,  bitter,  crushing  sorrow.  I  will  believe  that 
you  love  me  —  that  you  did  not  mean  to  deceive  me  !  I  will 
even  try  to  think  that  the  fault,  the  misunderstanding,  was  all 
mine.  My  soul  shall  send  back  only  prayers  for  you  —  my  heart 
shall  breathe  only  blessings.  I  love  you,  Lionel — 0,  how  I 
love  you !  If  I  could  coin  my  life-blood  into  a  flood  of  blessing, 
and  pour  it  on  your  head,  I  would  do  so  gladly ;  if  I  might  die 
for  you,  my  soul  would  be  blessed  as  the  angels.  I  even  have 
thought,  —  may  God  forgive  me !  —  that  I  could  give  my  soul  to 
perdition  for  your  sake ;  but  I  have  no  right  to  bring  sorrow,  and 
shame,  and  suffering,  upon  another.  The  lips  that  my  little  sister 
presses  must  be  pure ;  the  life  consecrated  by  a  dying  mother's 
blessing  must  be  unstained. 

"  Lionel,  Lionel,  how  I  have  loved  you! — But  I  go  !  I  dare  not 
trust  myself  to  look  again  upon  your  face !  I  must  not  write 
longer  here.  It  is  time  already  I  had  made  my  few  prepara-^ 
tions.  0,  it  is  hard  to  tear  myself  even  from  this  sheet,  which 
seems  to  link  me  to  you.  Do  not,  do  not  suffer,  dearest  Lionel ! 
On  earth  we  meet  no  more ;  but  in  heaven,  if  you  keep  your 
heart  pure,  I  will  know  you  and  call  you  by  your  name,  and  I 
—  I  will  still  and  forever  be  your  BLANCHE  LESLIE." 

A  deep,  anguished  groan  burst  from  the  heart  of  Lionel  Hun 
ter,  as  he  pressed  the  note  again  and  again  to  his  fevered  lips. 
"Lost,  lost,  lost!"  It  seemed  a  dirge  with  which  the  whole 
creation  was  groaning.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  knew  how 
madly  he  had  loved  Blanche  Leslie ;  then,  he  knew  it  would 
have  been  but  a  light  thing  to  have  laid  down  fame,  and  wealth, 
and  this  world's  honor,  so  that  her  head  could  have  lain 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  31 

upon  his  bosom,  so  that  he  could  have  called  her  his  wife. 
But  it  was  too  late.  Lionel  Hunter  was  not  one  to  yield  to  cir 
cumstances  tamely,  or  without  a  struggle.  He  liad  found  the 
eidolon  of  his  life's  long  dreams ;  had  looked  into  her  eyes, 
had  held  her  head  upon  his  heart ;  and  now  she  was  gone  — 
now  that  he  would  have  called  her  wife,  he  could  not.  At  first 
there  seemed  a  kind  of  injustice  in  it.  He  forgot  that  she  had 
fled  because  of  her  very  love,  not  from  him,  but  from  tempta 
tion  ;  and  the  proud  man  ground  his  teeth  together,  and  then  sat 
down  in  the  chair  her  form  had  pressed,  and  moaned  helplessly. 


4 


Ten  years  had  passed.  It  was  the  rich,  hazy  autumn. 
A  kind  of  misty,  Indian-summer  glory  lay  all  over  the  broad 
landscape*  and  flooded  with  its  radiance  the  pleasant  parlor  of 
an  elegant  little  cottage,  in  the  suburbs  of  New  Orleans. 
The  room  was  tenanted  by  two  ladies,  both  graceful,  both  ele 
gant,  but  neither  young.  Thirty  summers  had  woven  their 
meshes  of  light  in  Blanche  Leslie's  fair  tresses,  and  over  them  the 
moon  must  have  risen  in  a  night  of  sorrow ;  for  among  the 
golden  curls  were  threads  of  silver.  Her  features  were  purer, 
and  more  spiritual  in  their  outline,  and  her  thin  figure  had  lost 
none  of  its  grace. 

"Three  weeks  more,  Lady  Clara,"  and,  as  she  spoke,  you 
might  have  fancied  her  voice  had  in  it  the  low,  touching  music 
of  a  Peri  shut  out  of  Paradise,  and  pleading  that  the  gates 
might  be  reopened, — "three  weeks  more,  and  Ida's  school 
days  will  be  past  forever.  How  can  I  manage  then?  How 
shall  I  any  longer  spare  her  the  knowledge  that  her  sister  is  an 
actress  ? " 


32  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

"  You  can  hardly  hope  to  conceal  it  longer,  Blanche ;  and  why 
should  you  wish  it  ?  Surely,  dear  one,  in  your  pure  life  there 
is  nothing  for  which  to  blush.  In  my  anxiety,  when  you  left 
New  York  so  suddenly,  I  had  nearly  betrayed  your  secret.  O, 
Blanche,  you  can  never  dream  the  relief  it  was,  when  I  got  your 
letter,  telling  me  your  assumed  name,  and  requesting  me  to  join 
you  at  New  Orleans.  I  was  really  thankful  when  Charley 
entered  the  navy;  for,  if  he  had  staid  at  home,  both  he 
and  Ida  must  surely  have  long  since  known  your  secret; 
though,  really,  Blanche,  I  never  could  see  your  reasons  for  con 
cealment." 

"  0  Clara  ! "  and  the  poor  girl  shuddered  as  she  spoke,  "  you 
would  see,  if  you  knew  all.  Sometime  1/11  tell  you  why  I  left 
New  York  so  suddenly.  God  in  heaven  be  thanked,"!  've  been 
able  so  far  to  prevent  Ida  from  even  seeing  the  inside  of  a 
theatre !  I  can  bear  to  have  my  life  blank  and  dark,  if  I  can 
make  my  mother's  child  happy.  —  What !  a  letter,  Anne  ?  "  as 
the  servant  entered.  "That  must  be  from  some  one  at  the 
green-room.  I  hope  they  don't  want  me  for  a  rehearsal." 

But  why  did  her  cheek  grow  pale,  and  her  hand  tremble,  as 
she  glanced  at  the  superscription,  and  nervously  broke  the  seal  ? 
and  what  was  there  in  its  contents  to  bring  the  hot,  bitter  tears 
up  from  their  fountain  in  her  strong,  proud  heart  ?  "  Blanche," 
it  said  — 

"  BLANCHE  LESLIE,  —  For  something  tells  me  you  are  Blanche 
Leslie  yet — I  have  found  you  at  last,  after  these  weary  years. 
Listen,  and  hear  if  it  be  not  destiny.  When  you  left  me,  Blanche, 
I  was  a  heart-broken,  miserable  man.  You  did  not  know  me,  littlo 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK.  33 

darling,  or  you  never  would  have  gone.  I  did  not  know  myself. 
I  did  not  know  how  strong  was  the  love  I  had  for  you.  Blanche, 
believe  me,  for  I  swear  it  before  heaven,  I  never  would  have  asked 
you  to  make  one  sacrifice  for  my  sake.  You  should  have  done 
nothing,  been  nothing,  your  own  heart  did  not  sanction.  When 
I  read  your  note,  I  awoke  to  the  knowledge  of  my  own  soul. 
Then  I  knew  that,  without  you,  wealth,  and  fame,  and  honor, 
were  worse  than  vanity,  hollower  than  the  apples  of  Sodom.  I 
would  have  laid  down  everything  I  possessed  on  earth,  to  have 
called  you  wife.  My  soul  cried  out  for  you  '  with  groanings 
that  could  not  be  uttered.' 

"  For  a  month,  Blanche,  I  was  nearly  crazy.  I  did  nothing. 
I  shut  myself  up,  and  never  closed  my  eyes.  I  said  nothing  but 
'  Blanche  !  Blanche  !  Blanche  ! '  Then  there  came  to  me  a 
resolve  to  find  you,  and  I  went  forth.  For  all  these  weary 
years,  I  have  given  myself  to  the  search.  Sometimes  I  wan 
dered  into  the  obscurest  alleys  and  dens  of  misery,  for  1  would 
wake  from  terrible  dreams,  to  fancy  you  suffering  —  dying,  per 
haps,  of  starvation.  Then  I  would  seek  you  in  the  haunts  of 
fashion ;  for  all  this  time,  Blanche,  never  once  did  the  thought 
visit  me,  that  you  might  be  another's.  I  knew  you  were  true  to 
me.  I  knew,  wherever  you  were,  my  name  was  written  upon 
your  heart.  I  judged  your  love  by  the  resistless  might  of  my 
own. 

"  It  is  strange,  Blanche,  but  all  these  years  I  never  once 
entered  a  theatre  until  last  night.  I  thought  you  would  expect 
me  to  seek  you  there,  and  so  avoid  them ;  and  I  loathed  their 
very  atmosphere.  I  cannot  tell  why  this  feeling  should  have 
taken  possession  of  me,  but  it  was  so.  Last  night  my  mood 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 


changed.  Something  told  me,  as  I  passed  the  brilliant  lights, 
to  enter.  I  strolled  into  a  box  in  the  corner,  and,  Blanche,  I 
eaw  you.  Saw  you  !  Can  you  understand  how  my  whole  being 
was  electrified  ?  I  was  wrapped  in  a  trance  of  joy.  The 
weary,  weary  past  seemed  like  some  horrible  night-mare ; 
and,  0,  the  wakening  was  so  glorious !  I  could  not  see  you 
last  night  at  your  own  home,  and  yet  I  could  not  leave  you. 
I  followed  you  and  guarded  your  door  the  whole  night,  like 
a  sentinel,  and  only  this  morning  I  have  come  home  to  write 
this  letter.  Blanche !  Blanche !  was  I  indeed  so  near  you 
without  your  knowing  it  ?  or  did  your  heart  thrill,  as  in  a  vis 
ion,  because  I  was  near,  and  then  your  reason  chide  you  for 
the  fantasy  ? 

"  I  cannot  talk  of  all  that  terrible  past.  It  is  over  now.  Let 
us  forget  it.  I  will  be  with  you  presently ;  and  then,  then, 
little  darling,  I  will  feel  those  warm  arms  about  my  neck,  —  I 
will  draw  the  fair  head  to  my  bosom,  and  the  beauty  of  my 
dreams  shall  be  my  wife  !  0,  Blanche  !  how  many  weary  years 
I  have  wept  and  prayed  for  this  !  The  seas  have  not  been  deep 
enough,  nor  the  steep  mountains  ever  so  high,  as  to  divide  you 
from  my  vision.  At  night,  I  have  taken  in  my  hand  the  length 
of  your  golden  curls,  and  felt  my  forehead  baptized,  in  a  dream, 
with  your  kisses.  There, — I  cannot  write  longer.  I  will  come 
to  you,  and  then,  before  God  and  man,  you  shall  be  mine,  even 

as  I  am  your 

"  LIONEL  HUNTER." 

Blanche  glanced  around,  when  she  had  read  it  to  the  close; 
she  was  alone.  Clara  had  stolen  unperceived  from  the  room. 


THE  OBPHAN'S  TASK.  35 

She  threw  herself  upon  her  knees,  and  prayed,  for  a  brief  mo 
ment,  as  only  the  suffering  can  pray ;  and,  when  she  rose,  her 
face  was  pale  and  tearful,  indeed,  but  she  had  ceased  to  tremble. 
Going  toward  the  open  window,  she  drew  before  her  a  little 
inlaid  ebony  writing-desk,  his  gift  in  happier  days,  and  wrote 
rapidly : 

"  No,  no  !  Come  not  near  me,  Lionel  Hunter  !  Disturb  not 
the  holy  calm  to  which  it  has  been  the  work  of  years  to  attain. 
I  have  wept  much,  suffered  much,  but  I  am  stronger  now.  Talk 
no  more  to  me  of  earthly  love,  now  that  my  heart  has  grown  old, 
and  the  beauty  you  used  to  praise  has  faded.  Leave  me,  leave 
me  !  It  is  my  prayer  ;  it  is  all  I  ask.  Over  my  night  of  sor 
row  dews  have  fallen,  and  stars  have  arisen ;  let  me  walk  in  their 
light !  Only  in  heaven  will  I  rest,  if  it  may  be  so,  my  h^ad 
upon  your  breast.  Then,  when  the  angels  shall  name  me  by  a 
new  name,  I  will  steal  to  your  side,  and,  looking  back  to  earth, 
over  the  bastions  of  the  celestial  city,  you  shall  call  me 

"  BLANCHE  LESLIE." 

"  No,  no,  little  darling,  you  shall  not  send  me  from  you.  I 
will  call  you  my  wife.  You  shall  be  Blanche  Hunter.  Look 
up,  darling.  Let  me  gaze  into  your  blue  eyes,  life  of  my  life  ! 
and,  believe  me,  as  God  is  in  heaven,  I  will  never  leave  nor 
forsake  thee ! " 

And,  dear  me,  reader !  —  but  stories  of  real  life  always  will 
end  with  a  marriage,  however  much  I  may  strive  to  prevent  it, 
and  my  heroine  behaved  just  like  all  other  heroines ;  and  it  was 
not  till  years  after,  when  Ida  Leslie  also  sat  among  her  husband 


36  THE  ORPHAN'S  TASK. 

and  her  children,  that  she  learned  the  furnace  of  affliction 
through  which  her  sister's  feet  had  trod ;  and  that  she  herself 
owed  the  joy  and  prosperity  of  her  life-time,  —  not  to  Mrs. 
Lionel  Hunter,  leader  of  the  ton,  —  but  to  Blanche  Leslie,  the 
Actress. 


HEAVEN'S    CHANCERY, 


;I  expect  a  judgment,  shortly  —  at  the  day  of  judgment." 

BLEAK  HOUSE. 


FAST  fell  the  snow ;  keenly  blew  the  north-east  wind ; 
loudly  rattled  the  hail-stones  upon  the  frozen  pavement.  Wild 
and  wet,  and  fierce  with  tempest,  the  long  hours  came  roll 
ing  on;  the  black,  scowling  sky  above,  the  gray,  slippery 
stones  beneath.  Not  a  single  carriage  rumbled  along  the 
streets  of  the  great  qity;  still  and  silent  it  lay,  like  the  hush 
of  the  grave,  with  only  the  storm  stirring  the  pulsations  of  its 
mighty  heart.  It  seemed  to  have  folded  round  itself  a  pall 
of  night  and  stillness,  and  gone  to  its  shrouded  sleep,  haunted 
by  ghosts  of  fearful  dreams. 

There  were  sumptuous  halls  there,  where  fair  forms  reclined 
on  couches  of  crimson  velvet ;  where  the  rosy  light  streamed 
over  groups  of  statuary  and  rare  paintings,  in  which  old  masters 
had  wrought  out  such  dreams  as  man  dreams  but  once  on  earth, 
ere  he  wakes  from  them  in  heaven. 

There  was  life,  and  light,  and  hope,  within ;  there  was  black, 
surging  storm  without.  The  very  watchmen  had  cowered  within 
their  boxes,  and  came  not  forth  at  the  sound  of  a  quick,  firm 
step  along  the  deserted  side-walk.  You  would  have  started  as 
you  heard  that  foot-step,  with  its  proud,  defiant  language.  It 
4 


38  UEA YEN'S  CHANCERY. 

was  a  Wall-street  broker,  who  had  counted  his  gains  late  in 
the  night,  and  was  now  returning  homeward. 

Suddenly  behind  him  was  heard  another  foot-fall.  This  one 
seemed  to  express  a  kind  of  dogged  resolution,  stung  to  madness. 

Quickly  they  passed  onward,  those  two,  in  the  midnight  and 
the  darkness.  There  was  little  light  at  the  street  corner  where 
the  broker  paused  at  last,  —  paused,  for  a  strong  hand  was  on 
his  arm. 

"  Wretch  !  fiend  !  "  whispered  the  stranger,  "  have  we  met  at 
last? 

" '  Unhand  you,'  do  you  say  ?  'You  do  not  know  me ? ' — You 
do  kngw  me,  and,  by  all  the  fiends,  you  shall  know  me  better 
before  we  part !  I  loved  once.  Annie  Lyle  was  fair  and  bright 
as  the  roses  on  a  June  morning.  I  thought  she  loved  me, — 
and  God  knows  how  fondly  I  would  have  cherished  her  !  but  you 
crossed  her  path  —  you,  sir  —  do  you  hear  ? 

"  You  were  young  and  handsome,  but  with  poison  on  your 
adder's  tongue.  Annie  was  innocent  and  beautiful,  but  very 
poor,  —  poor  people,  have  no  hearts,  you  know  !  You  deluded 
your  victim  by  a  mock  marriage,  and  then  told  her  all,  and  left 
her  to  her  shame. 

"  That  girl  died  of  a  broken  heart ;  and,  with  my  hand  on  her 
cold,  dead  face,  with  its  upturned,  glassy  eyes,  I  vowed  to  guard 
her  child. 

"  You,  I  suppose,  were  happy.  The  arms  of  a  beautiful 
woman  were  round  your  neek  ;  one  who  would  have  spurned  my 
Annie  from  her  side.  Ha  !  ha  !  —  I  wonder  if  the  skeleton  arms 
of  that  dead  bride  of  yours  never  choked  and  strangled  you  in 
your  dreams. 


THE    FATAL   MOMENT. 


HEAVEN'S  CHANCERY.  39 

"That  child — your  child  and  the  poor  dead  girl's — has  grown 
up  now  ',  and  when  she  came  to  you  for  gold  (I  sent  her,  to  see 
if  the  father's  heart  within  you  might  not  even  yet  be  moved), 
you  spurned  her  from  your  presence ;  —  her,  with  her  mother's 
look  in  her  face,  her  mother's  soul  gazing  out  of  those  clear  eyes. 
You,  bold,  evil  man,  dared  to  turn  her  child  from  your  door,  and 
whispered  to  her  of  bread  that  shame  might  bring.  £{o,  no !  mean, 
pitiful  wrotch,  it  is  no  use  to  tremble  —  no  use  to  mutter  and 
deny  !  Pray,  if  you  will,  for  there  is  short  shrift  before  you  — 
this  hour  you  die  !  " 

"  Mercy !  mercy !  "  pleaded  the  doomed  man ;  but  his  cry 
was  uttered  to  a  heart  whence  all  sweet  mercy-drops  had  been 
washed  out,  long  years  ago,  by  bitter  tears  of  agony. 

"  Mercy,  ha  !  tell  me,  did  you  heed  Annie's  prayer  for  mercy, 
when  she  clung  to  your  knees,  in  her  comfortless  attic,  and 
begged  you  to  kill  her  with  your  own  hands,  and  not  leave  her 
there  to  die  of  shame  and  want  ?  Mercy  !  yes,  there  is  a  dagger 
at  your  side  ;  — use  it,  if  you  list,  —  use  it  —  or — die  !  " 

And  with  that  word  the  murdered  man  fell  heavily,  while  one 
shriek,  wild  as  the  wail  of  a  lost  soul,  rose  loud  and  clear  above 
the  storm,  above  the  clear  voices  which  rung  the  peal  of  one  from 
the  lofty  spire  of  Trinity  ! 

It  brought  the  startled  watch  to  the  spot,  as  if  summoned 
by  the  clang  of  a  trumpet ;  and  a  dozen  night-lamps  shed  their 
lurid  glare  on  the  murderer's  face,  as  he  coolly  drew  the  reeking 
steel  from  the  body  of  the  dead. 

*  *  *  *  * 

A  crowd  was  assembled  in  front  of  Sing-sing  prison,  for  a 
soul  was  to  go  forth  from  thence  to  meet  its  Maker.  The 


40  HEAVEN'S  CHANCEKY. 

by-standers  held  the  morning  papers  in  their  hands,  and  scarcely 
dared  even  to  breathe,  as  they  lingered  over  the  accounts  of  the 
justice  and  nobleness  of  the  deceased,  and  the  fearful  incidents 
of  his  shocking,  cold-blooded  murder  ! 

Hush !  hush  !  All  is  very  still  now.  The  prisoner  has  been 
placed  upon  the  scaffold,  and  turns  to  address  the  people. 

"  I  am  going  to  die  now,  fellow-citizens ;  dear,  good  friends, 
such  as  the  world  has  always  been  to  me  and  mine.  You 
have  done  me  a  great  many  favors,  and  this  last  one — this 
consent  to  let  me  die  —  is  the  greatest  one  of  all !  I  have 
appealed  to  another  Court,  and  I  go  there  to  await  my  doom. 
I  make  no  base,  mocking  denial,  no  plausible  lies,  to  cheat  the 
world  of  its  sympathy.  I  killed  him,  and,  could  I  kill  him  once 
more,  I  would  indeed  wish  to  live.  He  has  left  me  no  family  to 
disgrace,  and  I  go  to  a  Court  where  Wall-street  and  the  cell  at 
Sing-sing  stand  on  an  equal  footing." 

There  were  shouts,  and  jeers,  and  hisses,  when  the  dead  body 
hung  there,  in  its  cold  chains,  stark  and  stiff;  there  were  voices 
to  whisper  words  of  cheer,  and  trust  in  Heaven,  to  the  proud 
widow  of  the  Wall-street  broker ;  but  I  thought  low  to  myself 
of  the  high  Chancery  where  God  will  be  the  plaintiff,  and,  with 
little,  half-crazed  Miss  Flite,  I  whispered,  "  I  expect  a  judgment, 
shortly  —  at  the  day  of  judgment !  " 


CHANGE. 

O  WORD,  colder,  more  bitter,  more  terrible  thaB  death  !  Word, 
whose  lightest  meaning  is  a  great  gulf,  with  black,  surging  waters, 
over  which  not  even  the  angel  wing  of  Hope  has  power  to  pass. 

Fearful  spectre !  —  how  can  I  comprehend  its  meaning,  when 
such  fond  arms  are  hedging  me  from  care,  such  dear  eyes  mak 
ing  sunshine  in  my  life !  We  can  put  the  grave-yard  sod  above  a 
loved  one's  brow  and  live;  for  we  can  weep  over  the  grave,  and 
put  flowers  on  it.  The  pictured  face,  the  curl  of  sunny  hair,  can 
be  bathed  in  tears ;  for  Pride,  that  passion  stronger  than  life,  or 
love,  and  erewhile  stronger  than  Heaven,  forbids  us  not  to  shrine 
in  our  hearts  the  memories  of  the  dead,  to  build  altars  to  the 
loved,  and  lost,  and  gone  before.- 

But  Change !  When  the  dear  lips  smile  still,  but  the  smile  is 
not  for  us;  when  the  curls  are  long  and  sunny,  but  our  fingers 
may  not  twine  them ;  when  the  voice  swells  still  with  music,  but 
the  name  on  which  it  lingers  is  not  ours, — then,  indeed,  are  our 
life-paths  written  desolate ;  then  does  stern  Pride  put  her  finger  on 
our  lips,  and  choke  and  strangle  every  thought  that  would  breathe 
his  name ;  then  do  we  lock  up  the  olden  memories  in  our  hearts, 
and,  struggling  for  escape  in  vain,  they  can  only  walk  to  and 
fro,  like  caged  beasts.. 

It  is  a  strange,  mystic  word ;  whose  meaning  we  only  fully 
learn  after  months  and  years  of  anguish. 

When  the  summer  days  are  long,  and  they  cannot  watch  with 
4* 


42  CHANGE. 

us  the  blue  light  sleep  on  the  distant  mountains,  or  the  day  go 
down  the  sunset  slopes,  trembling  to  its  death ;  when  the  hymn 
falters  on  our  lips,  and  the  prayers  are  hushed,  because  their 
voice  joins  not  in  them,  there  only  steals  to  our  souls  a  faint, 
creeping  shadow  of  the  desolation  which  is  to  come ! 

What  wonder  that  our  heart  is  baptized  in  tears,  at  the 
thought  of  another  brow  lying  on  the  breast  where  only  our  head 
should  have  rested,  of  other  lips  being  pressed  to  the  shrine  of 
our  own  idolatry  ?  And  yet  it  must  be. 

There  is  no  rest,  save  that  which  broods,  bird-like,  with  its 
great  white  wings,  above  the  tide  of  death;  no  abiding-place, 
save  the  fields  that  lie  so  green  and  sunny  in  the  God-light  of 
heaven ! 

But  fain  would  I  put  the  evil  day  far  off.  Fain  would  I  pray 
our  Father  that  the  sunlight  may  linger  long  about  my  home, 
and  the  day  be  a  long  time  hid  in  the  cloud  of  coming  years, 
when  time,  or  death,  or  fate,  shall  brand  the  heart  I  trust  with 
the  cold  word  Change ! 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  SNOW-FALL. 


WHAT  sayeth  the  storm-wind,  sighing  ? 

It  bloweth  with  might  and  main, 
And  its  touch  on  my  aching  forehead 

Cools  the  throbs  of  my  deathly  pain. 

It  tells  of  a  grave  by  the  hill-side, 
Where  the  wild  winds  madly  blow, 

And  a  heart  that  is  cold  and  pulseless, 
'Neath  the  fall  of  the  hurrying  snow. 

And  I  think  of  a  tune  in  my  cabin, 
By  the  pine-fire's  nickering  light, 

When  a  hand  in  my  own  lay  trembling, 
The  whole  of  a  lonesome  night. 

And  he  said,  "  Bend  over  and  kiss  me  — 
0  friend,  thou  art  dearer  than  all ! 

Let  me  feel  thy  touch  on  my  forehead, 
While  the  cold,  white  snow-flakes  fall !  " 

But  my  eyes  were  dim  when  I  kissed  him, 
For  well  in  my  soul  did  I  know 

To  the  beautiful  country  of  shadows 
His  feet  would  be  first  to  go  ! 


44  A   LEGEND  OF  THE  SNOW-FALL. 

The  wind  was  aloft  in  the  chimneys, 
And  the  snow  was  aloof,  like  the  winga 

Of  a  cloud  of  descending  angels, 

Or  the  blooms  of  a  thousand  springs ! 

But  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  summer, 
And  followed  the  pleasant  ways 

Where  our  foot-steps  had  wandered  together, 
In  the  long,  bright  summer  days. 

His  thoughts  gathered  flowers  on  the  uplands, 
"Where  he  never  more  might  stray, 

Till  he  cried,  "  My  thoughts,  they  are  angels, 
Baptized  in  eternal  day  !  " 

Then  there  came  to  his  forehead  a  glory 
By  the  pine-fire's  flickering  blaze, 

As  I  told  'twixt  my  sobbings  the  story 
We  had  learned  in  those  happier  days  : 

How  the  good  Christ  was  born  in  a  manger, 
And  over  the  storm-waves  of  life 

Walked  with  majesty  simple  and  humble, 
Saying  Peace  to  their  turbulent  strife ! 

And  when  he  went  up  into  Heaven, 
O'er  the  hills  of  eternal  snow, 

He  promised  his  children  should  follow 
Where  he  had  been  first  to  go ! 

Then  my  love,  rising  up  from  the  pillow, 
Said  low,  with  his  head  on  my  breast, 


• 

A   LEGEND   OF   THE   SNOW   FALL.  45 

"  0  friend,  I  go  forth  in  the  morning, 
To  the  fields  of  Eternal  rest !  " 

And  when  the  gray  shadows  of  dawning 

Swept  over  the  cabin  floor, 
He  said,  "  I  am  weary,  ah  !  weary, 

And  cannot  come  back  any  more  !  " 

Then  the  golden-fringed  eyelids  were  folded 

Close  over  his  lustrous  eyes, 
And  I  heard,  'mid  the  storm  and  the  tempest, 

A  summons  from  Paradise. 

'T  was  sweet  as  the  sorrowful  closes 

Of  death-hymns  chanted  at  night, 
Or  the  breath  of  the  folded  roses, 

On  the  dead  man's  shroud  of  white. 

And  I  knew,  when  down  through  the  snow-flakes 

I  heard  those  sweet  tones  fall, 
'Twas  the  voice  of  a  summoning  angel, 

And  my  love  must  obey  the  call ! 

And,  alack !  when  there  stole  o'er  the  snow-drifts 

The  gold-shodden  morning's  tread, 
The  embers  had  faded  to  ashes, 

And  I  was  alone  with  my  dead ! 


"I  CANNOT  MAKE   HIM  DEAD." 


HUSH!  tread  very  lightly!  The  long  shadows  stretch 
across  the  floor,  the  canary  is  silent  in  the  window,  the  'air 
seems  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  the  violets  you  hold  in  your 
hand. 

There  he  lies,  —  your  little  Charlie !  Yes,  yours,  for  Charlie's 
mother  has  gone  to  sleep.  They  put  her  down  in  the  cold,  dark 
earth,  in  the  gray  of  a  winter's  morning ;  daisies  grow  over  her 
grave  now,  and  wild  birds,  southern  birds,  with  gay,  brilliant 
wings,  sing  over  her.  Charley  is  yours. 

Watch  him  as  he  sleeps.  The  eye  is  like  yours  when  it 
opens,  but  the  blue-veined  lid  that  closes  over  it  is  his  mother's. 
Those  lips  are  hers !  Do  you  remember  how  they  trembled 
when  you  first  told  her  your  love,  and  how  in  long  years  they 
only  parted  to  breathe  for  you  words  of  gentle  kindness  ?  Some 
times  you  were  impatient,  petulant.  0,  how  you  repented 
it  when  it  was  too  late !  But  nothing  had  power  to  dim  the 
love-light  in  those  clear  blue  eyes  —  nothing !  not  even  death 
itself,  for  her  last  words  were  a  blessing,  when  she  died,  and  — • 
gave  you  Charlie.  O,  how  you  have  loved  that  boy !  You 
have  watched  the  breath  of  heaven,  lest  it  fall  too  roughly  on  his 
cheek.  You  have  buttoned  your  coat  around  you,  as  you 


"I   CANNOT  MAKE  HIM   DEAD."  47 

turned  homeward,  after  a  profitable  speculation,  saying  to  your 
self,  "  Yes,  he  shall  be  rich,  my  Charlie." 

But  there  came  days  when  there  was  no  little  foot  to  meet 
you  on  the  stair,  no  childish  voice  to  whisper  welcome. 

The  room,  your  room  and  Charlie's,  was  hushed  and  still ; 
the  nurse  stepped  softly ;  the  whip  you  bought  him  hung  upon 
the  wall,  and  Charlie  could  only  whisper  faint  words  of  thanks 
for  the  flowers  or  fruit  you  brought  him  as  you  hurried  home 
ward.  Now  you  have  come  once  more  to  look  upon  him,  as  he 
slumbers.  It  is  fearful,  all  this  stillness.  "  Charlie,"  you  say, 
"  Charlie."  Slowly  the  blue- veined  lids  uprise;  the  dark  eyes  — 
your  eyes  —  look  up  to  your  other  eyes. 

Strange  how  bright  they  are !  You  put  the  violets  in  that 
tiny  hand.  He  clasps  them  closely,  but  he  whispers,  "  Papa, 
mamma  has  been  singing  me  to  sleep,  and  now  she 's  calling  me 
Kiss  me,  papa  !  "  and  with  that  last,  fond  kiss  your  little  boy's 
eyes  close,  and  the  white  dimpled  hands  tighten  over  the  fresh 
flowers. 

No  need  to  step  softly,  lest  you  waken  him.  His  mother 
guards  her  boy  !  No,  no  —  you  need  not  sob,  or  groan.  Bear 
a  brave  heart,  man ! 

Do  you  hear  that  carriage  in  the  street  ?  Do  you  hear  the 
town-clock  strike,  and  the  church-bells  peal  ?  The  world  is  going 
onward,  brisk,  lively,  smiling  as  ever,  with  the  joy-pulse 
beating;  at  its  great  heart ;  and  you,  what  are  you,  that  you 
should  make  your  moan,  sitting  there  in  the  silence,  holding  your 
dead  boy  to  your  breast  ? 

"  You  cannot  make  him  dead,"  you  say,  and  small  need ! 
The  earth  was  a  cold  soil  for  your  fair  flower  to  grow  in. 


48  "I   CANNOT   MAKE  HIM   DEAD." 

The  Great  Gardener  has  transplanted  it  to  the  ever-blooming 
gardens  of  Paradise.  He  is  yours  still !  You  have  but  nursed 
an  angel  for  heaven !  You  have  held  him  on  your  lap,  cradled 
him  in  your  arms,  and  when  you  have  hushed  him  to  rest  laid 
him  down  on  the  bosom  of  Jesus.  No,  to  you,  Charlie  "  is  not 
dead,  but  sleepeth !  " 


CHILDREN. 


CHILDREN  are  troublesome  comforts  —  no  mistake  about  that. 
I  always  believed  it,  and  lately  I  've  had  a  new  revelation  — 
not  exactly  of  the  kind  the  angel  Gabriel  gave  Mahomet,  either. 

When  I  want  to  go  out,  it's  "Here,  Nell,  can't  you  take 
little  Tom  with  you  ?  "  or,  "  Nell,  if  you  could  wait  a  few  mo 
ments,  here  is  Herbert  wants  to  go  to  sleep,  and  you  can  still 
him  quicker  than  anybody !  " 

I  'm  a  feminine  Job,  naturally,  but  I  must  confess  it  puts 
even  me  out  of  patience,  sometimes.  Just  to  think  of  having  my 
new  sky-blue  barege  consecrated  with  tears  and  molasses,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  way  my  white  bonnet-ribbons  are  tugged  at, 
when  I  enter  the  house,  by  half  a  score  of  urchins  afflicted  with 
pinafores,  and  a  "  What-have-you-brought-me  "  fever.  I  used 
to  pride  myself  on  immaculate  white  kids ;  but  I  had  to  give 
that  up,  long  ago !  I  'd  just  like  to  see  what  one  of  those  model, 
sweet-tempered  Lady  Esmonds  would  do,  if  she  had  my  daily 
penance  to  go  through  with  —  if  she  found  Honiton  lace  collars 
cut  up  for  flounces  to  doll-baby  ball-dresses,  new  silks  maple- 
sugared  with  innumerable  little  finger-prints,  velvet  mantillas 
spread  out  on  the  bushes  to  bleach,  and  my  sanctum  sanctorum 
drawer  of  fineries  turned  into  a  menagerie .' 

Heigho !  But  I  've  learned  to  bear  it  with  all  the  patience 
5 


50  CHILDREN.  ,. 

imaginable;  indeed,  about  those  things,  I  am  a  model  aunty, 
now-a-days. 

But  that 's  not  the  worst  of  it  — I  've  got  a  beau  !  It 's  funny 
I  should  have,  —  every  time  I  look  in  the  glass  I  think  how 
funny  it  is,  —  but  no  less  true  than  strange ! 

Of  course,  Tom,  and  Will,  and  Herbert,  and  the  rest,  must 
needs  have  free  entree  of  mamma's  parlor,  and  I  can't  say  a 
word. 

But  just  imagine  my  dismay  when,  at  the  breakfast-table, 
some  cunning  little  mouth  cries  out,  "  0,  mamma,  don't  you 
think,  Mr.  Smith  never  kissed  us  once  !  Should  n't  you  thought 
he  might,  when  he  kept  kissing  Aunt  Louise  all  the  evening  ?  " 

You  know  it's  not  very  fashionable  to  blush,  —  shockingly 
old-fashioned,  indeed, — but,  I'm  rather  unfashionable  on  some 
occasions. 

And  yet,  after  all,  there  is  no  more  devoted  lover  of  chil 
dren  than  I  am,  in  the  main. 

Dear,  sweet  little  denizens  of  a  world  we  are  not  pure  enough 
to  inhabit  any  longer ! 

I  saw  one  on  the  Common  the  other  day,  —  I  was  walking  with 
him  —  I  shan't  tell  you  who  he  is  though,  —  and  suddenly,  some 
what  to  his  surprise,  I  came  to  a  "  dead  halt "  before  a  little 
two-wheeled  baby-wagon.  But  such  a  beauty !  "  What  is  her 
name?"  I  asked.  "Annie,"  was  the  reply. 

I  ought  to  have  known  before  asking,  for  the  name  fitted  the 
little,  rosy,  darling  gypsy  completely. 

She  was  a  poor  person's  child,  one  could  see  by  all  her 
appointments ;  but  she  was  graceful  as  an  opium  reverie. 
Such  a  forehead  as  the  tangled  curls  o'ershadowed;  and  such 


CHILDREN.  51 

eyes — large,  black,  laughing,  saucy,  and  so  deep!  Such  a  little 
rose-bud  mouth  as  it  had ;  and,  though  it  did  laugh,  I  must 
needs  stop  to  kiss  it. 

Sweet  Annie !  Little  truant  sunbeam !  I  wonder  if  thou 
wilt  ever  again  smile  on  my  life-path  ? 

This  world  has  a  great  many  roads,  and  much  I  wonder  if 
thou  and  I  will  ever  again  travel  the  same  ? 

I  wonder  if  thou  art  destined  to  look  on  human  hear^,  and 
melt  them  with  thy  great  eyes !  If  it  be  thine  to  write  thy 
name  upon  the  age,  with  high  thoughts  and  lofty  deeds ;  or,  per 
chance,  if  thou  art  holding  one  end  of  a  golden  chain,  with  which 
God's  angels  shall  ere  long  draw  thee  to  Heaven ;  while  green 
grass  and  violets  shall  wave  round  a  white  headstone,  on  which 
stranger  hands  have  graven  "  Annie  !  "  I  cannot  say,  —  it  may 
be  that  some  other  day,  when  thou  and  I  are  both  older,  I  may 
pause  again  by  the  way-side  to  look  upon  thy  beauty ;  or,  it  may 
be,  we  meet  on  earth  no  more,  —  but,  God  be  thanked,  after  the 
day  comes  night,  and  there  is  one  hostel  for  both  of  us  at  our 
journey's  end ' 


THE   ANTHEM. 


ONE  day,  on  a  voyage  of  pleasure, 

I  entered  a  comet's  car, 
And  followed  the  sun  to  the  westward, 

In  his  journey  fiery  and  far  ; 
Till  I  saw  where  the  barges  of  heaven 

Lay  moored,  in  the  silence  deep, 
And  the  azure  sea  was  pouring 

Down  over  the  heavenly  steep. 
Their  canvas  of  clouds  they  were  reefing, 

And  over  their  broad  decks  shone 
The  rays  of  eternal  glory 

That  beam  from  the  great  White  Throne ! 
But  a  chant  arose  when  the  comet 

"Was  gallantly  bearing  down, 
And  it  swept  from  the  barges  at  anchor 

To  the  towers  of  the  heavenly  town. 
'Twas  a  band  of  heavenly  minstrels, 

And  they  chanted  a  heavenly  song, 
For  never  such  anthems  of  glory 

Bore  earthly  breezes  along. 
The  stars  of  the  morning  sang  treble, 

And  the  water-spouts  muttered  their  bass, 
And  the  Asteroids  joined  in  the  chorus, 

Each  one  from  his  far-off  place. 


THE   ANTHEM.  53 

•_ 

And  the  thunder  came  in  'twixt  the  verses, 

"With  his  grand  adagio-tone, 
And  higher  and  higher  the  chorus 

Swelled  up  to  the  great  White  Throne ! 
And  I  took  to  my  heart  the  lesson, 

As  we  glided  silently  past, 
Where  the  infinite  navies  of  heaven 

A  shade  on  the  azure  sea  cast  — 
That  our  voices  must  all  do  homage, 

Be  our  places  near  or  far, 
And  praise  must  come  up  from  the  earth-worm, 

As  well  as  the  morning  star ! 
5*= 


POOR   MAUD. 

"  Melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift; 

What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth, 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near,  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  more  real  1 "         BYRON. 

HAVE  you  ever  heard  the  shrieks,  and  shouts,  and  jeers,  of  a 
frantic  madman  ?  Have  you  seen  the  mocking  laughter  in  his 
wild  eyes,  or  the  swollen  veins  knotted  on  his  flushed  brow  ?  If 
so,  you  bear  on  your  heart  a  daguerreotype  of  the  wildest  horror 
whose  impress  a  human  heart  can  bear.  But  there  are  milder 
and  still  more  tearfully  appealing  phases  of  insanity,  where  the 
shattered  intellect  develops  itself  with  a  strange,  rare  beauty. 
It  was  many  years  ago  that  I  spent  the  lustrous  southern  sum 
mer  in  a  fair  village  of  Louisiana.  Villages  are  rarer  there 
than  at  the  north,  but  occasionally  you  find  a  church,  a  post- 
office  and  a  school-house,  and  around  them  a  few  scattered 
houses.  Such  was  the  village  of  Oakly,  where  I  was  staying. 
It  took  its  name  from  good  old  General  Oakly,  the  largest 
landed  proprietor  in  those  regions.  The  friend  I  was  visiting 
was  no  other  than  his  fair  daughter  Kate,  and  Oakly  Hall  rang 
with  our  merriment. 

Kate  Oakly  was  as  pretty  a  specimen  of  a  southern  girl  as 
my  Yankee  eyes  ever  rested  on.  A  brunette,  tall  and  graceful, 
with  an  exquisitely  moulded  figure,  and  red  lips  and  sparkling 


«  POOR   MAUD.  55 

eyes  that  might  have  charmed  a  hermit  from  his  cell,  or  a  Ma 
hometan  from  his  paradise.  We  were  friends  in  the  fullest 
sense,  for  we  each  had  a  lover  of  our  own ;  so,  of  course,  there 
was  no  quarrel  to  come  between  us.  We  had  had  sails,  and 
rides,  and  drives,  without  number ;  and  at  last,  one  morning, 
taking  a  volume  of  Moore  in  our  hands,  we  started  out  to  vary 
the  ordinary  programme  by  a  long  ramble. 

It  was  the  seventeenth  of  June.  Never  was  there  a  day  more 
gloriously  beautiful.  The  luxury  of  tropical  sunshine  had  swelled 
the  buds  on  the  almond-trees  to  bursting,  and  the  whole  fair 
world  around  us  seemed  like  a  mighty  garden.  We  wandered 
along  the  banks  of  a  dimpling,  leaping  stream,  till  we  came  to  a 
part  of  the  grounds  which  I  had  never  before  visited.  Suddenly, 
as  we  climbed  a  little  height,  there  burst  upon  my  view  the 
fairest  picture  these  eyes  have  ever  witnessed.  For  a  space,  the 
brook  ran  more  slowly,  and  its  murmurs  subsided  into  low,  sigh 
ing  dirge-notes.  On  its  banks  grew  a  fringe  of  drooping  willows, 
dipping  their  long,  green  fingers  in  the  dimpling  water.  On  one 
side,  where  the  bank  sloped  downward  from  the  rivulet  to  a  little 
dell,  there  rose  a  small,  plain  cross,  exquisitely  sculptured  from 
the  purest  of  Carrara  marble.  Around  it  was  a  neat  and  tasteful 
iron  paling,  overgrown  with  the  climbing  rose  and  trumpet-creep 
ers  ;  and  on  the  cross  itself  hung  tasteful  garlands  of  the  rarest 
flowers,  evidently  freshly  gathered. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Within  the  enclosure,  her  head  bowed  to 
the  foot  of  the  cross,  knelt  a  female  figure,  in  bridal  robes.  At 
the  first  glance,  I  thought  she  too  was  chiselled  out  of  marble, 
she  knelt  there  so  still,  and  hushed,  and  breathless,  with  her 
white  drapery  falling  about  her.  A  band  of  orange-flowers  was 


56  POOH   MAUD. 

braided  in  her  long  curls,  and  they  were  of  almost  silvery  white 
ness.  Her  face  was  so  bowed  upon  the  stone  that  I  could  not 
see  it,  but  in  a  moment  more  she  spoke. 

"  Come  forth  out  of  thy  grave,  0  my  beloved ! "  she  mur 
mured  ;  "  come  forth !  I  have  waited  for  thee  these  many 
years,  and  now,  behold,  I  kneel  here  once  more  attired  for  my 
bridal.  Come  forth  !  The  grave  shall  not  hold  me  from  thee  ! 
I  fear  not  the  worm.  This  cross  is  heavier  on  thy  breast  than 
my  head  ever  was.  Come  forth  !  come  forth  !  " 

She  seemed  utterly  unconscious  of  our  presence.  She  paused 
a  moment,  then  wound  her  arms  about  the  cross,  as  if  trying  to 
lift  it  from  the  grave.  Then  she  placed  her  ear  to  the  ground 
to  listen ;  and,  rising  up  in  a  moment,  shook  her  head  in  de 
spair,  and  swayed  her  body  mournfully  to  and  fro,  crying,  wail 
ing1!. 

"  O,  art  thou  false,  my  beloved  ?  Dost  thou  not  see  the 
bridal  garland,  and  the  white  robes  ?  I  am  all  ready,  but  I 
cannot  die  till  thou  comest.  Come  forth  !  come  forth  !  " 

Alas  !  alas  !  I  too  had  loved.  There  was  a  breast  where 
my  head  had  rested,  where  it  might  rest  never  again  forever ;  a 
sealed-up  past,  blistered  with  many  tears,  on  whose  leaves  I 
dared  not  look ;  and  I  bowed  my  head  upon  my  clasped  hands, 
and  wept  in  mortal  agony.  When  once  more  I  raised  it,  Kate 
was  kneeling  by  my  side,  with  her  soft  arms  wound  about  me. 
The  fierce  despair  which  had  swept  over  the  mourner's  soul 
seemed  to  have  passed  away,  and  she  knelt  beside  the  cross, 
binding  over  again  the  orange-flowers  in  her  hair. 

"It  is  well,"  she  said.     " Peradventure  he  sleeps;  or,  perad- 


POOR   MAUD.  57 

venture,  he  has  gone  on  a  journey.  I  shall  have  time  to  make 
up  my  wreath." 

Kate  Oakly  knew  all  my  heart.  She  knew  how  I  looked 
forth  from  the  sheltering  arms  of  my  betrothed,  to  follow,  with 
tear-dimmed  eyes,  the  form  of  a  weary  pilgrim,  climbing  in  lone 
liness  the  heights  of  fame.  How  thorns  grew  among  the  roses 
of  my  love,  and  my  ears  were  deaf  to  the  whispers  of  the  pres 
ent,  as  my  soul  roamed  out  into  the  shadow-land,  thirsting  and 
waiting  for  a  voice  which  long  ago  said,  "  I  love  you,  Nellie  !  " 
Therefore  it  was  that  I  wept  freely,  with  her  soft  arms  wound 
about  me,  for  Kate  was  no  intrusive  comforter ;  and  when  at 
last  I  smiled  through  my  tears,  pointing  to  the  grave  and  the 
mourner,  I  could  only  guess  the  depth  of  her  loving  sympathy 
by  the  tender  tearfulness  of  her  voice  as  she  replied  : 

"  That  is  '  Poor  Maud,'  Nellie.  Every  one  calls  her  so.  Go 
and  sit  down  with  me  under  the  thick  trees,  with  your  head  in 
my  lap,  and  I  '11  tell  you  her  story." 

In  a  moment  we  were  seated  at  a  little  distance,  partially 
screened  from  the  grave  by  the  fringe  of  drooping  willows ;  and 
Kate  began : 

"Perhaps  you  noticed  the  name  on  the  cross  was  Allan  Oakly. 
He  was  my  father's  only  brother ;  and  I  suppose  a  handsomer  or 
more  gifted  man  never  trod  the  green  fields  of  Louisiana.  He 
was,  I  have  been  told,  very  different  from  my  father.  You 
know  that  papa  is  bluff,  hearty  and  independent.  Well,  Uncle 
Allan  was  sensitive  as  a  woman.  His  fine,  firmly-knit  figure 
was  tall  and  slight.  The  lashes  drooped  over  his  olive  cheek, 
and  his  large,  dark  eyes  were  passionate  and  languishing,  except 
when  kindled  up  by  some  martial  ballad,  or  some  strain  of 


58  POOR   MAUD. 

impassioned  song.  My  Uncle  Allan  was  a  soldier  and  a  poet. 
He  was  born  so.  The  very  qualities  that  gave  fire  and  intensity 
to  his  poetry  nerved  his  heart  on  the  battle-field.  He  chose 
arms  for  his  profession  before  he  was  out  of  the  nursery,  and  his 
whole  education  had  been  with  a  view  to  that  end. 

"His  was  the  very  nature  to  love  with  that  intensity  of  pas 
sion  which  poets  like  him  have  sung  ;  but  his  choice  was  a  mys 
tery.  He  was  an  eagle  in  his  nature,  and  when  before  did  the 
eagle  ever  swoop  from  his  eyrie,  and  do  homage  to  the  dove  ? 
When,  at  nineteen,  he  came  home  from  his  military  school,  ar 
rayed  in  brilliant  uniform,  friends  and  neighbors  vied  with  each 
other  in  homage  to  his  talents,  and  endeavors  to  enliven  the 
summer  he  passed  at  home.  But  his  wayward  and  impetuous 
nature  would  not  be  fettered  by  conventional  restraints.  He 
used  to  steal  away  from  all  the  enticements  of  society,  and 
wander  for  whole  days  in  the  vast  solitudes  of  wood  and  plain. 
It  was  thus  that  he  first  met  Maud  Vincent.  He  was  one  day 
wandering  in  the  forest,  through  which  we  rode  the  other  day 
You  remember  how  beautiful  it  is,  and  how  romantically  it  rises 
up,  just  behind  the  little  country  school-house.  A  New  England 
schoolmaster  taught  there  then,  —  a  poor  man,  widowed  and 
lonely,  with  but  one  child. 

"  My  Uncle  Allan  had  often  passed  the  school-house,  and 
paused  under  its  eaves  to  hear  the  children  sing ;  and,  though  he 
had  never  entered  it,  he  was  not  without  curiosity  as  to  whose 
could  be  that  clear,  rich  soprano  voice,  leading  the  whole,  which 
swelled  up  to  heaven  with  such  bursts  of  melody.  On  the 
day  in  question,  as  he  wandered  through  the  forest,  he  came 
suddenly  upon  a  sleeping  maiden.  He  could  not  see  her  face, 


POOR   MAUD.  59 

. 

for  she  lay  upon  a  bank  of  moss,  with  her  brow  buried  in  her 
clasped  hands.  Her  dress  was  of  some  cheap,  cotton  fabric,  neat 
and  simple ;  and  the  tiny  foot  that  escaped  from  its  folds  was 
faultless,  with  its  black  slipper  and  snowy  stocking.  A  little 
gilt-edged  volume  of  the  '  Loves  of  the  Angels '  had  just  escaped 
from  the  clasp  of  her  dimpled  fingers,  and  there  she  lay,  like 
another  Peri,  with  the  sunshine  wandering  over  her  golden 
hair ! 

"  Very  gently  Allan  Oakly  seated  himself  by  her  side,  to 
watch  her  slumbers  and  wait  for  her  awaking.  Then  he  raised 
the  book,  and  glanced  at  the  passage  she  had  been  reading.  A 
faint  pencil-mark  was  traced  along  its  margin,  and  it  ran  thus  ' 

'  There  was  a  maid,  of  all  who  move 
Like  visions  o'er  this  orb,  most  fit 
To  be  a  bright,  young  angel's  love, 
Herself  so  bright,  so  exquisite  ! 
The  pride,  too,  of  her  step,  as  light 
Along  the  unconscious  earth  she  went, 
Seemed  that  of  one  born  with  a  right 
To  walk  some  heavenlier  element, 
And  tread  in  places  where  her  feet 
A  star  at  every  step  should  meet ! ' 

"  What  more  was  needed  ?  There  was  the  charm  of  place 
and  time,  and  then  these  words  seemed  traced  as  a  magic  picture 
of  the  beautiful  sleeper.  He  laid  down  the  book,  and  looked  at 
her  in  an  unconscious  ecstasy.  At  that  moment  she  languidly 
raised  her  fair  head,  and  the  soldier-poet  did  homage  to  the  full 
radiance  of  her  beauty.  Her  figure  was  slight  and  delicate ; 


bU  POOR  MAUD. 

her  face  pure  as  a  seraph's,  with  its  calm  brow,  clear,  blue  eyes, 
and  the  lights  and  shadows  floating  over  it  like  the  charmed 
atmosphere  of  a  dream.  Allan  Oakly  looked  and  worshipped ; 
and  when  the  maiden,  who  started  on  perceiving  him,  would 
have  fled,  very  respectfully  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm  to 
detain  her,  and  said,  gently,  'The  soldier  could  never  wrong 
what  the  poet  adores.  I  have  watched  your  slumbers,  and,  now 
that  I  have  waited  for  you,  will  you  not  give  me  a  moment  ? 
Tell  me,  bright  nymph  of  the  forest,  what  do  they  call  you  when 
you  go  among  mortals  ? ' 

" '  My  name  is  Maud  Vincent,'  was  the  quiet  reply,  '  and  I 
am  the  schoolmaster's  daughter.' 

"  The  conversation,  the  pleasant  interview  which  followed, 
were  but  the  first  among  many.  The  young  girl's  heart  yielded 
itself  up  to  his  pleadings,  in  a  flood  of  delicious,  trembling  joy;  and 
Allan  Oakly  wreathed  with  flowers  his  sword  and  lyre,  and  laid 
them  at  the  feet  of  the  maiden  of  nineteen.  When  they  parted 
in  the  autumn,  it  was  with  the  understanding  that  they  were 
betrothed,  and  the  marriage  was  to  be  celebrated  the  next  sum 
mer.  ' It  shall  be  when  the  June  roses  blow,  Maud,  darling,' 
said  the  soldier-lover,  —  'June  17th,  for  that  is  your  birth-day, 
dearest ;  and  your  father  shall  give  you  to  me  the  same  day  on 
which  God  gave  you  to  him.' 

"  My  Grandfather  Oakly  was  a  proud,  stern  man.  You  have 
seen  his  portrait,  Nell.  It  hangs  in  the  long  gallery.  From 
time  to  time  my  Uncle  Allan  had  resolved  to  tell  him  of  his 
betrothal,  and  implore  his  blessing.  But  he  was  withheld  by  a 
knowledge  of  his  father's  stern  pride  and  ambition.  My  father, 
who  was  at  that  time  very  young,  was  his  only  confidant,  and 


PQOR  MAUD.  61 

rj 

papa,  loving  his  elder  brother  almost  to  idolatry,  never  dreamed 
of  opposing  his  wishes.  The  winter  passed  very  happily  to 
sweet  Maud  Vincent,  cheered  by  frequent  letters  from  her  be 
trothed.  She  loved  him  with  a  purity  and  singleness  of  heart, 
that  it  was  beautiful  to  see.  The  letters  of  his  name  spelt  her 
universe,  and,  like  a  sleep-walker  cheered  by  glorious  visions, 
she  passed  on,  heeding  not  cold,  or  darkness,  for  the  summer 
that  was  in  her  heart. 

"  In  the  spring  they  met  once  more,  and  Allan  Oakly  forgot 
the  doubts  and  shadows  that  lay  heavy  around  his  own  heart, 
while  gazing  into  the  sweet  blue  eyes  of  his  plighted  bride.  In 
those  days,  and  especially  in  the  plantation-districts  of  Louisi 
ana,  parental  authority  was  by  no  means  the  light  thing  it  is 
regarded  now.  No  Romanist  ever  shunned  the  maledictions  of 
the  Pope  with  a  more  fearful  awe,  than  children,  then,  the  curses 
of  their  father.  And  perhaps,  in  all  the  country  round,  there 
was  not  another  man  regarded  with  so  servile  and  timid  a 
respect  as  my  Grandfather  Oakly.  It  was  the  first  week  in 
June  before  my  uncle  could  gather  courage  to  tell  his  father  of 
his  dream  of  love. 

"  They  were  standing  together,  in  an  alcove  of  the  lofty  wain- 
scotted  parlor,  when  my  grandfather  laid  his  hand  on  Allan's 
shoulder  with  an  unwonted  display  of  affection.  '  It  is  twenty- 
two  years  ago  to-day,  my  son,  since  your  mother  came  into  this 
house  a  bride.  It  is  ten  years  ago  to-day,  since  she  was  carried 
out  of  it  a  corpse,  married  to  death.  Never  yet  has  my  heart 
found  room  for  another  image !  You  are  very  like  your  mother, 
boy.' 

" '  Then  you,  sir,  were  twenty  years  old  when  you  married.  / 
6 


62  POOR   MAJJD. 

am  twenty  now.     May  I  go  forth,  and  bring  you  a  daughter  to 
love,  who  will  kneel  with  me  at  your  feet  for  your  blessing  ? ' 

" '  You  would  wed,  my  son  ?  On  whom  has  your  choice 
fallen?' 

"  '  On  Maud  Vincent,  my  father,  —  the  schoolmaster's  daugh 
ter!' 

"  I  have  been  told  the  outbreaks  of  my  grandfather's  passion 
were  terrible  to  see ;  but  he  mastered  himself,  at  last,  sufficiently 
to  say,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  rage,  'Allan  Oakly,  marry 
Maud  Vincent,  if  you  will ;  but  from  that  hour  you  are  no  son 
of  mine ;  and  with  my  dying  breath  I  will  curse  you  —  curse 
you  —  CURSE  YOU  ! ' 

"Terror-stricken,  my  uncle  glided  from  the  room,  with  a  blight 
resting  on  his  whole  future.  He  loved  Maud  Vincent.  For  her 
sake  he  could  have  braved  death  in  its  wildest  forms.  He  could 
have  defied  pain,  or  want,  or  ruin ;  but  not,  0,  not  a  father's 
curse  !  It  wanted  two  weeks  still  to  the  day  appointed  for  the 
marriage.  Already  Maud's  simple  trousseau  was  completed, 
and  her  lover  had  shared  in  her  childish  joy,  when  she  tried  on 
her  bridal  dress  of  snowy  muslin,  looped  up  with  orange-flowers ; 
and  he  made  the  discovery  that  she  had  never  before  looked 
half  so  beautiful.  How  could  he  crush  this  innocent  happi 
ness,  and  lay  upon  her  pure  young  soul  the  blight  which  waa 
consuming  his  own  ?  He  resolved  to  wait  until  the  last 
moment. 

"  The  night  of  the  sixteenth  of  June  was  passed  by  him  in 
sleepless  agony.  He  attempted  to  write  to  his  betrothed,  but 
many  times  he  snatched  up  the  sheet  and  tore  it  in  fragments. 
At  last  he  succeeded  in  producing  a  scrawl,  blotted,  and  almost 


POOR   MAUD.  63 

illegible  with  tears,  which  he  commissioned  my  father  to  deliver 
to  her,  at  the  hour  appointed  for  the  nuptials.  It  was  day-light 
when  he  completed  it,  and  in  five  minutes  he  took  the  early 
morning  stage  for  the  capital. 

"At  ten  o'clock  that  day,  my  father  entered  the  schoolmaster'? 
cottage.  He  was  but  fifteen  then,  and  his  boyish  heart  was 
deeply  moved.  Tears  chased  each  other  down  his  pale  cheeks, 
and  his  limbs  trembled  so  violently  he  could  hardly  enter  the 
parlor.  Maud  was  already  attired  for  her  bridal.  Her  golden 
curls  were  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  orange-flowers,  and  her 
dimpled  neck  and  arms  looked  fairer  than  ever,  through  the 
fleecy  folds  of  her  snowy  robe.  She  looked  up  with  a  glad, 
joyous  smile,  as  my  father  entered;  and  then,  seeing  him,  she 
cried,  '  0,  it  is  you,  good  Bertie!  Welcome,  —  but  where  is 
Allan?' 

"  'He  could  not  come  yet,'  said  my  father, in  a  choking  voice, 
'  but  he  bade  me  give  you  this,'  and  he  put  the  letter  in  her 
hand.  The  blue  eyes  of  the  girl  grew  larger  and  larger,  as  she 
read.  It  ran  thus  : 

" '  Heaven  forgive  and  pity  me,  life  of  my  life,  that  I  should 
be  writing  you,  the  night  before  our  bridal,  only  to  say  farewell. 
Our  bridal  j  yes,  it  shall  be  so.  To-morrow  my  soul  shall  marry 
your  soul,  though  I  am  far  away.  I  have  been  mad,  for  two 
weeks  past,  Maud  !  The  ashes  of  the  bottomless  pit  have  been 
upon  my  head,  and  its  hot  breath  has  scorched  my  cheek.  I 
would  not  tell  you,  my  beloved,  because  I  wished  not  to  drag 
you  down  with  me  to  perdition.  O,  Maud,  my  darling !  Maud, 
my  beloved !  Can  it  be,  I  never  more  must  draw  your  head 


64  POOR   MAUD. 

to  my  heart  —  never  more  must  look  into  your  blue  eyes, 
or  watch  the  blushes  stealing  over  your  cheek?  But  I  am 
raving. 

" '  Two  weeks  ago,  Maud,  I  told  my  father  of  our  love,  and, 
with  a  terrible  oath,  he  vowed  that  he  would  curse  me  with  his 
latest  breath,  if  I  made  you  my  bride.  I  dare  not  oppose  my 
self  to  his  wishes.  God  knows  I  would  have  braved  for  you  all 
that  man  could  brave  of  fate,  or  suffering ;  but  my  father's  curse, 
it  is  too  horrible.  You  may  think  me  selfish,  darling,  that  I 
have  fled,  and  left  you  to  bear  this  all  alone ;  but,  0,  I  could 
not  look  into  your  sweet  face,  and  know  I  must  not  call  you 
mine.  I  could  not  see  your  agony.  It  would  unman  me. 
Beside,  my  heart  tells  me  you  will  bear  it  better  if  I  am  far 
away. 

'"I  go  to  France,  dear  one.  Life  is  held  there  now  at  the 
point  of  the  bayonet,  and  I  long  to  die.  And  yet,  Maud,  I  have 
one  hope.  All  things  earthly  pass  away,  and  so  may  the  oppo 
sition  to  our  wishes.  It  will  not  be  in  weeks,  or  months  ;  per 
haps  not  in  long  years.  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  wait  for  me,  to 
be  true  to  me ;  but,  0,  Maud,  life  of  my  life,  I  can  never  love 
another,  /shall  be  true,  and  if  you  should  be?  —  0,  my 
angel,  at  the  very  thought,  heaven  opens  before  me.  I  must 
not  write  more.  God  in  heaven  bless  you!  0,  angel  Maud, 
follow  me  with  prayers,  or  I  shall  be  a  lost  and  ruined  man. 
Let  me  think  Maud  prays  for  me,  Maud  waits  for  me,  and 
it  will  be  my  salvation.  Bless  you  —  bless  you  —  bride  of  my 
heart  —  wife  of  my  soul !  Blessed  be  thou,  as  I  am  wretched. 
" '  Your  ALLAN.' 


POOK   MAUD.  65 

"  All  the  time  the  girl  read,  her  blue  eyes  had  kept 
growing  larger  and  larger,  and  when  she  had  finished  she 
calmly  folded  the  letter  and  left  the  room.  My  father  had 
expected  she  would  be  stunned  by  the  blow,  or,  at  least,  that  she 
would  weep  or  faint ;  but  she  did  neither.  She  was  so  very 
calm  that  it  frightened  him,  and  he  stole  from  the  house. 

"  After  that  Maud  came  among  the  villagers  as  before.  She 
taught  her  own  little  class  at  day-school,  and  Sunday-school; 
and  there  was  no  change,  except  that  her  eyes  looked  larger 
and  sadder,  and  her  fair  cheek  grew  thinner  and  paler,  every 
day.  If  any  questioned  her  concerning  her  lover,  'He  has 
gone  to  France,'  she  would  answer,  'and  will  return  again, 
after  a  time.' 

"And  so  three  years  passed  on.  Each  month  there  came  a 
letter  for  Maud,  full  of  the  most  earnest  protestations  of 
unchanging  love,  and  imploring  her  to  write  him,  if  it  were 
but  one  word.  Not  one  of  these  ever  reached  the  sweet  girl 
for  whom  it  was  intended.  My  grandfather  had  control  over 
the  post-office,  as  over  most  other  things  in  that  region.  The 
letters  were  given  into  his  hands,  and  he  read  them,  and  locked 
them  in  his  desk.  And  still,  in  spite  of  all,  he  dearly  loved  his 
first-born  son  Allan ;  and  when  he  saw  the  clinging,  passionate 
tenderness  with  which  his  thoughts  still  turned  to  his  early  love, 
he  sat  down  and  wrote  him  that  Maud  had  forgotten  him  —  that 
Maud  was  wedded. 

"Other  years  passed — sad,  weary  years  to  Allan  Oakly  —  in 

which  he  wrote  no  more  letters  to  the  schoolmaster's  daughter. 

Nor  did  he  ever  mention  her  name  in  his  letters  to  my  father. 

If  he  had,  the  mystery  might,  perhaps,  have  been  explained, 

6* 


66  POOR  MAUD. 

and  two  lives  made  happier.  But,  I  don't  know  —  God  orders 
all  things,  and  there  are  some  souls  that  grow  meet  for  heaven 
through  much  tribulation. 

"Almost  ten  years  had  past  since  my  uncle  left  his  home, 
when  my  grandfather  received  a  letter  announcing  his  return. 
He  would  bring  his  bride  with  him,  he  said ;  and  he  was  coming, 
perhaps,  to  die.  He  had  never  forgotten  Maud  Vincent,  —  never 
loved  another  as  he  had  loved  her ;  but  he  had  been  very  ill, 
very  miserable,  and  Alice  Graves  had  been  his  gentle  nurse.  She 
was  a  fair,  high-born  English  girl,  and  when  he  found  that  she 
loved  him  he  had  given  her  his  hand ;  but  his  malady  was  of 
the  soul,  and  no  care  or  nursing  could  cure  it. 

"  Then  it  was  that  my  grandfather,  terrified  at  the  result  of 
his  own  schemes,  called  my  father  to  his  side,  and  told  him  that 
by  some  means  Allan  had  supposed  Maud  to  be  married,  and 
so  had  united  himself  to  another ;  and  he  bound  my  father,  by  a 
solemn  promise,  not  to  undeceive  him,  lest  the  shock  should 
prove  fatal.  All  these  years  Maud  had  lived  on,  in  her  still, 
quiet  beauty,  growing  every  year  paler,  and  more  spiritual. 
But  a  sweet  hope  lay  warm,  living  and  earnest,  in  her  heart ; 
the  hope,  the  faith,  that,  some  day  in  the  far  future,  her  be 
trothed  would  return,  and  they  should  be  reunited. 

"  There  were  costly  preparations  made  at  Oakly  Hall  for  the 
reception  of  the  heir  ajid  his  bride.  The  spacious  parlors  were 
refitted,  a  conservatory  thrown  open,  and  a  new  room,  added  to 
the  west  wing  of  the  building,  was  arranged  as  a  boudoir  for  the 
Lady  Alice.  It  was  a  pleasant  afternoon  in  early  May,  when  a 
travelling-carriage  bowled  slowly  up  the  gravelled  walk,  and 
my  Uncle  Allan,  descending  from  it,  extended  his  hand  to  a  fair 


POOR    MAUD.  67 

and  gentle  lady.  You  could  have  seen,  as  they  ascended  the 
steps,  however,  that  he  leaned  on  her  frail  form  for  support.  This 
return  to  Oakly,  a  spot  haunted  by  so  many  memories,  proved 
a  shock  too  severe  for  his  already  enfeebled  constitution,  and  one 
from  which  he  never  recovered. 

"  He  had  been  home  a  month  already,  and  had  not  yet  left  the 
house,  when  one  evening  he  lay,  a  little  before  sunset,  on  a  lounge 
by  the  window  of  his  wife's  boudoir.  My  grandfather  stood 
near  him,  and  the  Lady  Alice  sat  on  a  low  stool  by  his  side. 
'  Father,'  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice,  '  where  is  Maud  ?  I  must 
see  her  before  I  die.  Dear  Maud !  Alice  always  knew  how  well 
I  loved  the  Maud  of  my  memory,  the  Maud  of  my  worship,  —  did 
you  not,  sweet  Alice  ?  Father,  I  have  not  long  to  live,  and  I 
must  see  Maud  before  I  die.  I  gave  her  up  at  your  request, 
and  now  you  must  bring  her  here  at  mine.' 

Slowly  the  old  man  left  the  room,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more 
Maud  had  been  summoned,  and  arrived  at  the  Hall.  My  grand 
father  met  her  as  she  entered,  and  said,  in  a  husky  whisper, 
'  Maud  Vincent,  you  have  loved  my  son.  He  thinks  you  are 
married  to  another ;  do  not  undeceive  him,  or  his  death  will  be 
upon  your  head  !  ' 

"  '  I  promise,'  answered  Maud,  firmly  and  gently,  as  she  passed 
into  the  boudoir. 

"  '  0,  Maud,  Maud,  star  of  my  heart,  beauty  of  my  dreams  ! ' 
cried  the  sick  man,  raising  himself  from  his  pillow.  '  Father, 
Alice,  you  will  go  forth  foi^  a  moment,  and  leave  us  alone.' 

"  What  passed  at  that  interview  no  one  ever  knew.  A  half-hour 
afterwards,  my  grandfather  reentered  the  room.  Maud  had 
climbed  upon  the  couch,  and  there,  with  her  arms  around  him, 


68  POOR   MAUD. 

with  his  head  resting  at  last  on  her  bosoru,  lay  my  Uncle  Allan, 
dead  !  A  wild  light  burned  in  Maud  Vincent's  eyes ;  but  she 
clasped  her  hands  imploringly,  and  said,  in  a  low,  pleading 
whisper : 

"  '  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  do  not  waken  him,  sir ;  he  sleeps,  at 
last.  You  know,  sir,  we  are  to  be  married,  the  seventeenth  of 
June ! '  Then,  turning  to  the  dead  one  on  her  breast,  she 
brushed  back  the  hair  from  his  pale,  high  brow,  and  murmured, 
'  Sleep,  Allan ; '  sleep,  darling  !  Nobody  shall  harm  thee  — 
Lullaby ! ' 

"  Alas,  alas !  poor  gentle  Maud  Vincent !  Her  long-tried  heart 
had  broke  at  last ;  she  had  gone  mad.  Long  the  Lady  Alice 
sorrowed  for  her  lord,  but  not  as  one  without  hope ;  for,  two  years 
ai'ter,  she  gave  her  hand  to  my  father,  and  I,  Nellie,  am  her 
child.  My  grandfather,  in  his  latter  years,  was  penitent,  and 
grew  meek  and  gentle  as  a  child ;  but  it  is  said  remorse  haunted 
and  stung  him  terribly  on  his  death-bed.  Maud  Vincent  is 
nearly  sixty  years  old  now,  but  every  seventeenth  of  June  she 
fails  not  to  robe  herself  in  bridal  atire,  and  come  to  her  lover's 
tomb,  to  awaken  him.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  she  was  less 
crazed  than  we  deemed  her ;  and  that  the  wakening  for  which 
she  waited  was  to  come  after  death,  the  new  birth  of  heaven. 
But  look,  Nellie,  there  she  is  still ! " 

Kate  paused  from  the  recital,  and,  looking  out  through  my 
tears,  I  could  see  the  pale  mourner,  in  her  white  robes,  kneeling 
still,  with  her  lips  pressed  to  the  cold  marble ;  and  once  more  she 
said,  in  the  same  trembling  voice,  so  full  of  melancholy,  "  Come 
forth,  0  my  beloved !  Alas !  thou  wilt  not.  Have  I,  then,  one 
year  more  to  wait  in  care  and  sorrow  ?  Alas,  alas !  " 


TOOK   MAUD    WAS   1>£AJ.«. 


POOR   MAUD.  69 

Several  years  after,  toward  the  close  of  a  long  letter  from 
Kate,  occurred  this  passage  : 

"  Poor  Maud  is  gone  at  last,  Nellie  !  The  manner  of  her 
death  was,  to  say  the  least,  very  singular.  She  had  seemed 
wilder  than  usual,  for  some  days,  and  we  had  not  allowed  her  to 
go  anywhere  without  an  attendant.  It  was  the  seventeenth  of 
June,  and  in  the  morning  her  manner  was  very  calm  and  gentle. 
Once  more  she  robed  herself  in  her  bridal  attire,  and,  shaking 
down  her  long  silver  tresses,  soft  and  curly  still,  she  bound  them 
with  a  wreath  of  fresh  and  fragrant  orange-flowers.  '  We  are 
to  be  married  at  ten,'  she  said,  smiling,  as  she  left  the  house, 
'  and  it  is  eight  now ! ' 

"  She  went  directly  to  the  grave,  and  knelt  there  for  nearly 
two  hours,  apparently  absorbed  in  silent  prayer.  At  last  she 
said,  with  a  wild  cry  of  joy, 

"  '  It  is  time  —  it  is  time  !  Come  forth,  0  beloved !  At  last 
Thou  comest  —  Thou,  who  art  the  resurrection,  and  the  life ! 
Welcome  —  thrice  welcome,  for  I  have  waited  many  years. 
Praise  Grod,  my  beloved  ! ' 

"  And  the  frightened  attendant  avers  that  she  saw  an  angel 
rise  out  of  the  grave,  with  wings  of  white.  She  hastened  to  the 
house ;  I  glanced  at  the  clock,  on  the  mantel ;  it  was  five  minutes 
after  ten,  and,  when  we  reached  the  grave,  POOR  MAUD  WAS 
DEAD  ! " 


"THERE,   NELL,  THE   HAY  JS  IN." 

So  it  is !  Ten  thousand  blessings  on  you,  little,  darling,  rosy 
cousin  Hal !  You  rode  on  the  cart,  did  n't  you,  and  helped,  of 
course !  Wnat  an  achievement !  I  doubt  greatly  whether,  if 
you  should  sit  in  the  Presidential  chair,  some  day,  you  'd  be  half 
as  elevated ; — you  would  n't  be  so  high  up  in  the  air,  would  you  ? 
Brave,  nice  little  rider,  the  old-time  memories  sweep  over  my 
heart  like  a  gale,  when  I  look  at  you ;  for  I  am  older  than  you 
are,  and  have  ridden  on  many  things,  beside  hay-carts ! 

What  a  beautiful  simplicity  there  is  about  childhood,  especial 
ly  the  childhood  of  such  children  as  grow  up  among  buds,  and 
blossoms,  and  fresh  air !  Blessed  be  Heaven  that  I  was  a  child 
once!  That,  even  that,  is  something  now,  —  to  look  back  and 
remember  that  there  was  a  time  when  I  dared  to  be  transparent ; 
when  my  eyes  mirrored  my  heart  like  wells ;  when  I  spoke  «.s 
I  felt,  and  feared  nothing  short  of  God  and  heaven  ! 

Blessed  be  childhood,  for  its  unworldliness,  its  living  in  the 
present,  which  is  the  nearest  thing  to  living  unto  God !  No  ques 
tions  then  about  fashion ;  no  schemes  or  troubles ;  no  brief,  fitful 
dreams  of  fame-fires,  which  burn,  for  their  fuel,  the  very  heart 
whence  they  sprung. 

It  is  joy  enough  then  to  take  a  breezy  walk  over  the  downs, 
to  have  a  pocket-full  of  nuts  or  apples,  or  a  ride  on  a  hay- 
cart. 


"THERE,   NELL,    TILE   HAY 'S   IN."  71 

Why,  0,  why  cannot  this  freshness  be  preserved,  to  make  green 
our  after  life  ?  It  is  a  question  that  has  haunted  me  for  many 
a  week,  and  I  cannot  answer  it.  It  cannot  be,  surely,  that  our 
God-created  hearts  pass,  of  their  own  accord,  out  of  these  quiet, 
sunny  fields  of  the  child-life,  into  the  world-paths,  choked  with 
sand  and  thorns,  and  oftentimes  steep  with  hills !  ' 

It  must  be  a  kind  of  hereditary  madness,  so  common  that  it 
has  ceased  to  be  fearful.  We  walk,  ourselves,  in  a  land  of  shad 
ows  ;  we  stretch  out  our  hands,  and  grasp  unreal  phantoms,  call 
ing  themselves  wealth,  and  pleasure,  and  fame ;  and  we  say  their 
names  over  to  our  children,  and  teach  them,  too,  to  turn  away 
from  the  tree  of  the  true  life,  and  stretch  their  dimpled  fingers 
after  these  apples  of  Sodom. 

Tiie  pain,  the  disappointment,  the  loss  and  anguish,  are  theirs ; 
but  the  curse,  alas  for  it !  will  it  not  fall  on  us  ?  I  have  been  forth 
into  the  world,  and  come  back  again  weary ;  and  now  my  heart  is 
aching  sore  for  the  sunnier  days,  when  I  made  parasols  of  holly 
hocks,  and  tea-pots  of  poppy-pods,  and,  after  the  fashion  of  ladies 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  kept  my  own  carriage,  which  was  —  a  hay-cart ! 


DELIA:   A   LAMENT. 


RESPECTFULLY   INSCRIBED   TO   HON.    C.    F.    CLEVELAND  AND   LADY 


DIM,  struggling  sunbeams  of  the  dawn 

Keep  with  the  clouds  a  funeral  tryst ; 
A  long,  blue  line  lies  slant  across 

The  whiteness  of  the  morning's  mist ; 
With  solemn  monodies  of  birds 

The  air  is  tremulous  the  while, 
As  when,  from  hollow  organ-pipes, 

A  moan  floats  through  the  old  church-aisle  ! 

And  'mid  thick  boughs  of  branching  trees, 

"Where  spring-buds  cannot  struggle  through, 
I  tread  beneath  my  listless  feet 

The  crisp  grass,  bended  o'er  with  dew. 
A  dirge,  as  of  unnumbered  bells, 

Is  ringing,  painful,  in  my  ears  ; 
Around  my  heart,  in  choking  tide, 

Surge  sullen  baptism-waves  of  tears. 

What  time  the  sweet  spring-days  grew  long, 
Beneath  the  last  year's  mellow  rays, 

Our  fond  hearts  echoed  back  her  song, 
Our  voices  trembled  to  her  praise. 


I 
DELIA:  A  LAMENT.  73 

When  starlights  from  her  meek  brown  eyes 

Illumined  all  our  spirit's  night, 
Our  pains,  like  crowns  of  thorns,  fell  down, 

And  hopes  sprang  up  from  hopeless  blight. 

What  time  she  braided  up  her  hair 

With  summer  buds  and  bands  of  flowers, 
It  was  as  if  some  saint  had  shed 

Heaven's  light  on  this  dim  world  of  ours  ; 
And,  kneeling  where  her  feet  had  trod, 

We  watched  to  see  the  glory  break, 
When  angel  fingers,  at  the  dawn, 

Heaven's  portals  opened  for  ier  sake  ! 

She  was  too  good,  we  said,  and  fair,       x 

To  dwell  in  this  cold  world  of  pain, 
And  yet,  we  never  dared  to  think 

Her  own  might  beckon  her  again. 
All  the  pale  winter  that  is  gone, 

Our  life  knew  neither  shade  nor  fear ; 
'T  was  bathed  in  love's  serenest  light, 

From  those  brown  eyes,  so  heavenly  dear. 

But,  in  the  twilights  of  the  spring, 

The  angels  whispered  to  her  soul ; 
In  sweet  and  pleasant  symphony, 

She  heard  heaven's  tide  of  anthems  roll ; 
And,  putting  from  her  forehead  pale 

The  scarcely  faded  bridal  crown, 
In  the  dun  twilight  of  white  death 

The  young  day  of  her  life  went  down. 
7 


.  * 

74  DELIA:  A  LAMENT. 


And  grief  sits  brooding  in  our  hearts  ; 

For  sweet  spring  time,  and  summer  heat, 
And  autumn  winds,  that  viewless  tread 

The  hill-side  with  their  homeless  feet, 
But  breathe  to  us  of  sweet  hopes  changed, 

Of  fond  hearts  breaking,  young  life  fled  ; 
And  earth  seems  but  a  mighty  grave, 

Where  lonesome  voices  wail  the  dead  ! 


» 


REVERIES. 


A  GIEL  !  Yes,  young  and  pretty,  with  the  life-blood  fairly 
dancing  in  my  veins,  and  heart  and  eyes  all  a-glow  with 
hopes  ! 

Hopes  !  and  why  not  hopes,  I  pray  ?  What  if  I  be  young, 
and  weak,  and  a  woman  ?  Why  not  hope  ?  Is  there  not  enough 
within  me  to  beautify  my  future  ?  Am  I  not  loved  ?  Is  not 
Ernest  good  and  noble,  and  is  not  his  fate  mine  ? 

Beloved  !  Yes,  I  am ;  and  already  into  my  soul  steals  some 
of  the  quiet  holiness  belonging  to  the  tie  of  a  betrothed  wife. 
Yes,  beloved  !  I  am  ambitious  for  myself  no  longer.  Indeed,  I 
doubt  sometimes  whether  I  have  any  individual  existence. 

My  plans  are  all  for  him.  What  care  I  for  fame  now — for 
glory,  save  the  glory  of  being  his  ?  But  I  would  have  men  bow 
before  him  whom  I  delight  to  honor.  I  would  have  palms  of 
victory  and  glory  rustle  over  his  noble  brow,  and  shine  myself  in 
the  lesser  light  reflected  from  his  name.  Ah,  yes,  I  love  and  am 
loved  !  —  0,  Heaven,  how  fondly  ! 


A  BRIDE  !  What  dreams,  what  visions,  have  already  met  their 
fulfilment  !  What  other  and  still  more  glorious  visions  are 
stretching  onward  into  futurity  ? 

How  strange  it  seems  to  hear  them  call  me  by  his  name ! 


76  REVEEIES. 

With  what  a  flutter  of  timidity  and  delight  I  trembled,  when 
they  called  me  so  for  the  first  time  ! 

I  am  his  now  forever.  I  do  not  tremble ;  I  am  calm  and 
glad,  for  I  love  him  and  he  loves  me.  How  pleasant  it  seems 
to  have  him  take  care  of  me !  How  kind  and  tender  he  is ; 
how  observant  of  my  every  wish  !  What  a  joy  to  feel  that  the 
arm  on  which  I  lean  is  my  own  forever ;  that  not  even  tune  or 
death  can  take  him  from  me,  for  our  union  shall  be  truer  still, 
and  more  enduring,  in  the  skies  ! 


A  WIFE  !  What  has  become  of  the  wild  gladness  of  my  bridal 
days,  the  fairy  visions  of  my  girlhood  ?  Ah  me  !  they  are  all 
pressed  down  in  graves,  with  the  flowers  growing  over  them. 

My  life  now  is  different  from  anything  I  had  dreamed,  or 
hoped ! 

We  are  one  too  wholly  to  say  "  I  love."  We  would  as  soon 
think  of  saying  to  each  other,  "  I  love  myself,"  as  to  say  thoso 
words  so  pleasant  in  the  olden  time,  "  I  love  you." 

0,  how  the  ties  which  bind  our  hearts  have  strengthened  since 
then,  till  they  have  grown  so  firm  and  strong,  no  words  can 
undo,  no  deeds  can  break  them  !  0,  none  but  a  happy  wife  can 
realize  the  full  beauty  of  that  almost  prophetic  declaration,  — 
"  And  they  twain  shall  be  one  flesh."  We  are  not  one  flesh 
only,  but  one  soul !  Our  hearts  thrill  to  the  same  hopes  and 
dreams ;  —  we  do  not  talk  to  each  other  any  more,  we  only 
think  aloud.  All  that  is  Ernest's,  his  life,  his  hopes,  his  dreams, 
ay,  and  his  very  beauty,  is  in  another  and  a  dearer  sense 
mine. 


• 
REVERIES.  77 

- 

Truly,  if  ever  hearts  were  wedded,  with  the  Eternal  for  the 
priest,  and  angels  for  witnesses,  ours  are  so  wedded,  and  I  am 
blest ! 

A  MOTHER  now  !  0,  this  young  and  beautiful  part  of  myself, 
this  sweet  new  life  that  is  resting  on  my  bosom !  God  be 
praised  that  he  has  given  me  work,  —  an  angel  to  train  for 
heaven.  What  a  soul  looks  forth  from  those  violet  eyes  !  My 
child,  my  holy  one,  my  God-given  !  I  wonder  if  ever  there  was 
another  baby  like  my  baby!  What  eyes  it  has — its  father's 
eyes ;  and  the  little  hand  that  rests  upon  my  bosom,  —  did  ever 
another  mother's  heart  thrill  to  touch,  so  soft,  so  fairy-like,  so 
dear  !  What  pretty  little  ways  it  has  !  How  it  winds  its  arms 
around  my  neck,  and  laughs  till  its  cheeks  dimple  and  flush  like 
the  hearts  of  the  June  roses ! 

But  it  has  come  into  a  weary  world,  my  little  pilgrim  from 
the  Eden-land.  God  help  me  to  guard  it  from  care  and  sorrow, 
and  from  sin  !  Stoop  from  thy  heavenly  throne,  0  Saviour  of 
men,  and  hallow  my  baby  with  the  baptism  of  thy  divine  love  ! 

Gone  to  sleep  now !  It  must  be  an  enchanted  sleep,  my 
dearest  one,  for  the  smile  brightens  round  thy  rose-bud  mouth, 
as  if  at  pleasant  dreams. 


CHILDLESS  !  Alas  for  it !  0,  my  beautiful  one,  how  still 
thou  liest !  Scarcely  does  the  summer  wind  lift  thy  fair  curls, 
0,  my  own  life  ! 

Dearest  half  of  my  being,  —  baby  that  I  have  borne  beneath 
my  heart !  How  can  I  give  thee  up  ?  0,  my  precious !  I 


78  REVERIES. 

shall  hear  thy  voice  in  the  long,  blue  summer,  when  the  violets 
grow  above  thy  head.  I  shall  clasp  my  arms  about  thee  in 
dreams,  and  wake  to  find  them  empty,  with  the  moonbeams  on 
my  bosom,  where  the  shadow  of  thy  hair  was  wont  to  float. 

Speak  to  me  but  once,  my  darling,  and  then  I  can  say,  God's 
will  be  done ! 

Kiss  me  but  once  —  once  more,  ere  they  nail  down  thy  coffin- 
lid  !  Cold  and  silent,  still.  0  God,  how  can  I  bear  this  agony  ? 

My  child,  my  child  !  What  have  you  gone  to  sleep  for  there 
in  the  sunshine  ? 

You  are  not  dead  !  no,  indeed,  you  can't  be  !  "What  a  bitter 
mockery  it  was  when  they  told  me  my  beautiful  baby  was  dead ! 
Did  I  not  know  better  ?  Dead,  indeed,  with  that  sweet  smile  on 
her  lips ! 

But  wake  up,  darling;  you  've  slept  long  enough.  Here 's  your 
little  rattle,  the  pretty  silver  one  that  mother  would  n't  let  you 
play  with.  You  shall  have  it  now,  little  one !  What !  you  don't 
wake — not  when  your  mother  kisses  you?  —  Then  you  are  dead, 
my  precious ! 

0  God !  cannot  I  come  too  ?  I  can  hold  her  more  gently 
than  the  angels,  for  is  n't  she  mine  ? 

They  shall  not  put  her  in  the  ground  !  I  will  hold  her  on  my 
bosom  !  The  whole  world  is  empty  ! 

Forgive  me,  0  Father,  it  is  not  empty !  I  can  say  "  Thy 
will  be  done,"  for  Ernest  is  by  my  side.  He  is  holding  me  on 
his  heart,  —  weeping  with  me,  for  me,  —  his  tears  are  hot  and 
burning,  but  they  cool  the  fever  of  my  soul.  I  can  bear  to  have 
them  put  my  baby  in  the  ground  now,  for  Ernest  tells  me  she 
will  be  mine  still  in  heaven.  I  can  live,  for  his  life  would  be 


REVERIES.  79 

desolate  without  me.  And  yet,  my  precious  child,  my  only  one, 
thy  mother  loves  thee.  But  I  will  not  call  thee  back ;  I  will 
not  grieve  that  thy  home  is  on  thy  Saviour's  breast,  and  over 
thy  pure  heart  grow  sweet-breathed  flowers,  brightening  in  the 
shine  and  shower  of  the  summer.  Permitted  to  be  the  mother 
of  an  angel  in  heaven,  I  will  not  go  mourning  among  the  graves 
of  earth. 

WIDOWED  !  Dead !  dead !  Can  it  be,  —  strong,  true  heart  ? 
Is  there  no  more  a  breast  where  I  can  weep,  an  arm  to  shelter 
me,  a  voice  to  call  me  darling  ?  Dead  !  Then  God  be  merciful, 
for  all  is  gone  !  0,  speak  to  me  but  once,  only  one  little  time, 
to  say  that  you  forgive  me ! 

0,  Ernest,  did  I  not  love  you  ?  What  have  I  done,  that  you 
should  go  away  and  leave  me  here  alone  ?  Do  you  not  feel  me  ? 

See,  I  am  lying  upon  your  breast !  Awake !  arise  !  What ! 
cold  and  silent  still,  when  such  tears  fall  from  my  eyes  ! 

Did  you  not  promise  to  love  me  always  ? — and  you  are  gone ! 
What  am  I  saying  —  forgive  me  ! 

See,  I  am  kneeling  to  you,  my  own  beloved  !  Look  at  me  ! 
Not  one  glance,  —  dead,  dead ! 

You  loved  me  once,  I  know  you  did.  They  cannot  take  away 
that,  if  they  do  put  you  down  in  the  grave-yard. 

How  the  clock  ticks  !  How  the  carriages  rattle !  and  I  hear 
people  laugh  on  the  side-walk !  Cruel !  I  will  shriek  it  into 
them,  so  they  will  hear  it  forever,  that  fierce  word  —  Dead! 
Kiss  me.  I  never  kissed  those  lips  before  that  they  did  not 
thrill  at  my  touch.  Cold  and  stark ! 


80  REVERIES. 

The  sun  doesn't  shine  any  more.  Ah,  yes  it  does;  it  is 
mocking  me. 

The  sun  shines,  and  the  birds  sing.  Birds  that  he  used  to 
feed.  The  world  goes  on  as  gay  as  ever.  How  I  long  to  tear 
the  mask  off,  and  see  if  other  hearts  are  never  scorched,  and 
seared,  and  branded  with  that  wild  word  —  Dead ! 


A  PILGRIM  !  At  last,  0  Father  in  heaven,  I  can  say,  "  Thy 
will  be  done  ! " 

Thou  hast  taken  all,  and  given  me  a  double  portion  in  Thyself. 
I  walk  in  the  shadow  of  Thy  Cross  now,  for  my  loves  and  hopes 
are  in  heaven. 

Three  winters  the  snow  has  woven' shrouds  over  my  baby's 
grave ;  three  summers  the  flowers  have  blossomed  there,  and  the 
stars  smiled  on  them. 

Twelve  long  and  weary  months  I  have  walked  alone  to  the 
grave-yard,  where  they  wrote  my  husband's  name  on  the 
marble  ! 

He  has  slept  well.  At  first,  I  used  to  clasp  him  to  my  heart, 
in  feverish  dreams.  My  head  used  to  lie  upon  his  bosom,  and  I 
would  wake  and  weep  that  I  was  alone.  But  I  am  only  on  a 
journey. 

I  am  contented,  now  that  they  have  gone  home  before  me  — 
Ernest  and  little  Carrie.  I  loved  them,  and  I  dare  not  weep 
when  I  think  they  are  borne  on  angels'  pinions  through  the 
gates  over  which  I  must  climb  in  toil  and  sorrow. 

It  chokes  my  heart  with  tears,  sometimes,  when  I  see  some 
happy  mother  lay  her  child's  head  on  her  breast,  and  watch  the 


KEVERIES.  81 

light  in  its  smiling  eyes ;  for  I  think  of  eyes  that  looked  in 
other  days  into  my  own,  and  hair  that  streamed  like  moonlight 
over  my  bosom  ;  but  I  dash  the  tears  away,  for  the  angels  are 
nursing  Carrie  for  me  in  heaven,  and  by  and  by  they  will  put 
her  in  my  arms.  Downward  from  the  invisible  country  fall  the 
sun-rays  on  those  two  dear  graves,  making  a  shining  path  of  light, 
wherein  one  day  my  feet  shall  tread ;  for,  God  be  praised,  I  can 
go  to  them,  though  they  can  never  come  to  me  ! 


CHRISTIANA:  OR,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

A  GERMAN  TALE. 

"  And  Jesus  called  a  little  child  unto  Him,  and  set  him  in  the  midst 
of  them, 

"  And  said,  Verily  I  say  unto  you,  except  ye  be  converted,  and  become 
as  little  children,  ye  shall  not  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Whoso 
ever,  therefore,  shall  humble  himself  as  this  little  child,  the  same  is 
greatest  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

"  And  whoso  shall  receive  one  such  little  child  in  my  name,  receiveth  me  !  " 

HOLY  SCRIPTURE. 

IT  was  the  evening  before  Christmas.  The  Hartz  Mountains 
were  covered  with  snow,  and  the  trees  looked  as  beautiful,  in 
their  white  drapery,  as  the  choir  of  white-robed  village  maidens, 
that  scatter  flowers  on  a  bridal  morning.  The  moonlight  fell  in 
a  flood  of  glory  over  all,  smoothing  away  the  roughnesses  of  the 
sleeping  world,  even  as  the  roughnesses  are  smoothed  away  from 
our  life-paths  when  we  look  at  them  in  the  clear  light  of 
eternity. 

Everything  wore  a  holy  peace  in  the  home  of  Gottlieb  Schwi- 
den,  the  forester.  Gottlieb  had  been  out  all  day  in  the  forest, 
gathering  up  boughs,  and  piling  wood  into  fagots.  He  had 
worked  later  than  usual,  for  it  was  the  day  before  Christmas, 
and  his  wife  had  got  all  things  ready  for  his  return.  Her  two 
eldest  boys,  Carl  and  Johan,  had  gone  out  with  their  father  to 
help  in  the  fagot-binding.  Marie,  a  quiet,  womanly  girl  of 


CHRISTIANA:  OR,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT.  83 

twelve,  had  been  assisting  her  mother,  and  now  sat  down  by  the 
window  to  watch  for  her  father's  return ;  while  the  other  chil 
dren,  Maud  and  Katrine,  and  even  the  little  Heinrich  in  his 
cradle,  were  still  and  quiet  in  the  hush  of  the  Christmas 
evening. 

The  fire  burned  brightly  on  the  broad  hearth,  and  the  reflec 
tion  of  its  rays  made  the  little  looking-glass  opposite  flash  like 
a  great  diamond,  from  out  its  frame  of  green  twigs  and  holly- 
berries.  In  one  corner,  Gertrude  Schwiden  had  spread  her 
husband's  supper-table.  It  was  a  round  table  of  smooth  pine- 
boards,  but  on  it  lay  a  cloth  white  as  the  snow  on  the  top  of  the 
Hartz  Mountains,  and  the  supper  of  hot  oat-meal  cakes  and 
honey,  and  goats'  milk,  was  good  and  plentiful. 

Gertrude,  herself,  was  a  kind,  motherly  woman  of  forty,  still 
handsome,  with  just  the  good-humored,  loving  face  a  man  likes 
to  find  smiling  on  him  when  he  comes  home  at  night. 

Gertrude's  father  and  mother  were  poor  cottagers,  and  she 
had  not  many  folds  of  linen  to  her  dowry ;  but  Gottlieb  Schwi 
den,  though  he  never  met  her  at  fairs,  or  market-days,  had  seen 
her  come  to  church  on  the  Sabbath,  with  her  simple  straw 
bonnet,  and  her  old  grandmother  leaning  upon  her  arm ;  and  so 
he  said,  "She  who  makes  so  good  a  daughter  will  certainly 
prove  a  good  wife."  And  he  had  taken  the  portionless  Gertrude 
with  a  glad  heart  to  his  cottage  in  the  forest. 

Gottlieb  was  considered  a  "  well-to-do  "  young  man,  as  poor 
folks  reckon  such  things.  He  owned  his  snug  little  cottage  on 
the  borders  of  the  forest,  and  was  a  forester,  as  his  father  had 
been  before  him,  for  the  Dukes  of  Saxe-Coburg.  But  yet,  dur 
ing  the  twenty  years  of  his  married  life,  he  had  only  been  able, 


84  CHBISTIANA:  OR,  THE  CIIBISTMAS  GUT. 

by  close  toil,  to  hold  his  own,  and  care  for  the  wants  of  his 
increasing  family.  But  he  had  a  portion  better  than  riches,  for 
he  was  pious  and  contented ;  and  one  wiser  than  you,  or  I,  or 
Gottlieb  Schwiden,  has  said,  "  Godliness  with  contentment  is 
great  gain." 

His  wife  had  been  all  to  him  that  he  hoped  —  the  cheerful 
fellow-worker,  the  sympathizing  friend,  the  godly  mother  of  his 
children.  And  now,  this  Christmas  evening,  she  had  swept  up 
her  little  room,  and  garnished  it  with  evergreens,  and,  taking  the 
little  Heinrich  from  his  cradle,  she  sat  down  before  the  fire  with 
a  quiet  smile,  to  await  her  husband's  return. 

At  last  there  were  quick  steps  outside,  and  in  rushed  the  two 
boys,  Carl  and  Johan,  with  their  rosy  cheeks,  and  eyes  sparkling 
with  exercise  and  good-humor. 

"Hurra,  mother,  for  Christmas!  nothing  to  do  to-morrow; 
but  we  are  just  as  hungry  as  bears  —  can't  we  have  supper  ?  " 

"  Yes,  boys,  presently ;  but  where  is  your  father  ? " 

"  0,  he  won't  be  home,  these  two  hours.  One  of  the  big  black 
oaks  has  blown  down,  and  he  staid  to  cut  it  up  and  bind  it. 
You  know  the  moon  shines  so,  it  is  as  light  as  day." 

"  Well,  sit  down,  then,  and  eat  your  supper ;  the  oat-cakes  are 
beginning  to  get  cold,  and  I  '11  make  some  new  ones,  and  have 
them  hot  for  your  father." 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  Gottlieb  Schwiden  lifted  the  latch 
of  the  little  cottage.  When  at  last  he  entered,  he  bore  with 
him  a  large-sized  wicker  basket,  with  a  card  attached  to  the 
cover,  on  which  was  printed,  in  good  black  ink, 

"A  Christmas  Gift  for  Gottlieb  Schwiden  and  his  wife  Ger 
trude." 


\ 
CHRISTIANA:  OK,  THK  CHRISTMAS  GIFT.  85 

"  Well,  wife,  what  can  this  be  ?  "  cried  the  forester,  as  he  set 
the  basket  down  upon  the  table.  "  Get  your  shears,  and  just  cut 
these  cords,  and  we  '11  see  in  a  trice." 

Gertrude  quickly  cut  the  cords,  and  then  they  lifted  the  cover 
from  the  basket,  and  found — what  do  you  guess,  wise  old  people 
that  are  reading  ?  —  and  what  do  you  guess,  dear  little  children  ? 
It  was  a  baby, — not  a  common  little  baby,  but  one  fair,  and 
sweet,  and  beautiful,  as  a  fairy-baby,  or  a  snow-child. 

It  was  sound  asleep  when  they  opened  the  basket,  but  in  a 
moment  the  joyful  cries  of  the  children  awoke  it,  and,  with  a 
smile,  it  opened  wide  its  great  blue  eyes.  0,  such  a  beautiful 
child  as  it  was ! 

"Not  so  pretty  as  our  baby,"  I  hear  one  and  another  of  you 
say,  little  boy  and  girl  readers !  May  be  you  would  n't  think 
so,  for  you  love  your  own  baby  best ;  but  forget  him  just  now, 
and  imagine  yourself  a  little  German  child,  with  no  playthings 
at  all,  in  a  small  house  in  the  forest ;  and  suppose,  on  a  Christ 
mas  evening,  some  one  should  send  you  a  real  live  little  baby, 
with  nose  and  eyes  and  mouth  just  like  other  children,  only  ten 
times  fairer  and  sweeter  than  any  of  them.  I  guess  you  would 
say  it  was  a  beauty;  or,  if  you  wouldn't,  the  little  German  chil 
dren  in  the  forest  did,  and  that 's  just  as  well  for  my  story. 

The  little  one  had  great,  fearless  blue  eyes,  clear  as  the  blue 
sky  on  a  summer  evening,  when  the  air-fairies  have  stolen  away 
all  the  clouds  to  make  castles  of;  then  she  had  such  sunny 
curls  —  you  would  have  thought,  surely,  some  fairy  had  been 
bribing  the  big  giant  who  tends  the  fires  of  the  sun,  and  had 
stolen  away  some  of  his  sunbeams  to  bind  the  baby's  forehead. 

I  don't  know  as  you  would  have  seen  anything  uncommon 


CHRISTIANA:  OR,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

about  the  baby's  toes  and  fiiigers,  and  the  little  nose  and  lips , 
but  Maud  and  Katrine  and  Marie  thought  them  the  most  re 
markable  toes  and  fingers  that  ever  "were  seen.  But  one  thing 
you  would  have  thought  strange  —  the  baby  bore  all  this  exam 
ination  patiently,  turning  her  great  smiling  eyes  from  one  to 
another,  and  "  never  cried  a  word ; "  while,  you  know,  in  church 
last  Sunday,  your  baby,  if  she  did  n't  cry  words,  cried  a  great 
many  other  things  that  were  worse  than  words. 

But,  while  we  have  been  talking,  they  have  left  the  baby  in 
the  basket ;  and  now,  Gertrude,  who  has  quietly  warmed  some 
goat's  milk,  takes  it  out,  and  gives  it  some  supper. 

All  this  time  Gottlieb  had  stood  silent,  with  a  puzzled  face, 
half  smiling,  now  and  then,  at  the  delight  of  the  children.  At 
last  he  came  and  sat  down  by  his  wife,  as,  with  her  loving,  moth 
erly  eyes,  full  of  quiet  tears,  she  was  giving  the  stranger  its  cup 
of  milk. 

"Pretty  little  thing,  isn't  she,  Gertrude?"  he  said,  at  length. 
"  I  must  carry  her  off  to  Dame  Purtzell's  in  the  morning.  She 
takes  care  of  the  poor,  you  know.  I  declare  I  hate  to  take  it 
away,  it 's  so  pretty." 

"Surely,  Gottlieb,"  said  the  wife,  turning  away  her  meek 
eyes,  "  you  don't  mean  to  give  away  our  Christmas  present  to 
any  one  else  ?  We  don't  know  what  a  blessing  may  have  been 
sent  with  the  gentle,  fearless  little  thing.  You  will  let  me  keep 
her,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  But,  Gertrude,  we  have  hardly  enough  for  these,"  and  he 
turned  his  fatherly  eye  on  his  own  seven  children ;  "  how  can 
we  get  bread  enough  for  another  ? " 

"  Surely,  my  husband,"   said  Gertrude,  meekly,  "  the  Lord 


CHRISTIANA  :    OK,    TUB   CHRISTMAS   GIFT.  87 

will  provide.  Has  He  not  said,  '  Whoso  shall  receive  one  such 
little  child  in  my  name,  receiveth  me '  ?  He  provides  for  the 
sparrows,  and  He  will  provide  for  us,  His  children,  and  those  He 
has  given  us." 

"  You  are  right,  as  you  always  are,  my  wife  Gertrude ;  you 
shall  have  the  child;"  and  Gottlieb  Schwiden  arose,  and  went  to 
the  supper-table. 

An  hour  later,  and  the  children  had  all  gone  to  bed,  save 
Heinrich,  who  was  sleeping  in  his  cradle,  and  the  little  stranger 
lying  in  Gertrude's  arms.  The  wife  sat  thoughtfully  beside  her 
husband,  and  the  fire-light  shone  flickering  over  her,  and  the  fail- 
child  in  her  arms,  making  a  beautiful  picture,  that  some  artist 
might  have  wrought  out  on  the  canvas,  and  won  himself  a 
name.  But  no  artist  was  there  to  see  it ;  there  was  only  Gott 
lieb,  and  he  sat  gazing  thoughtfully  into  the  fire. 

"  Wife,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  what  will  you  name  your  Christ 
mas  gift?  We  do  not  know  that  she  has  ever  been  baptized, 
and  we  will  take  her  to  the  church  to-morrow,  and  have  her 
christened." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  that,  Gottlieb,  and  I  thought,  as  she 
was  given  to  us  as  a  Christmas  gift,  like  a  Christ-child,  we 
would  call  her  Christiana" 

"  Well,  Gertrude,  she  is  yours ;  you  can  name  her  what  you 
will.  She  's  a  fair,  sweet  little  thing,  and  looks  pure  enough  for 
an  angel,  as  she  lies  there  upon  your  lap.  You  know  the  good 
book  says  some  have  entertained  angels  unawares." 

Merrily  rang  all  the  church-bells,  far  and  near,  on  the  bright 
Christmas  morning. 


CHRISTIANA:  OK,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

Gayly  flashed  the  snow-crested  tops  of  the  Hartz  Mountains, 
and  the  tall  trees  of  the  forest  spread  out  their  long,  white- 
robed  arms,  like  so  many  bishops,  all  saying  a  benediction.  The 
breakfast-table  had  been  cleared  away  in  the  little  cottage  of 
Gottlieb  Schwiden,  the  mother  had  hung  the  Christmas  turkey 
up  to  roast,  and,  leaving  Marie  at  home  to  watch  the  turkey  and 
the  children,  she  was  making  ready  to  go  to  church  with  her 
husband,  her  two  oldest  boys,  her  daughter  Maud,  and  the  little 
Christmas  child. 

The  comfortable  sled,  with  its  wolf-skins  and  bear-skins,  stood 
at  the  door,  with  the  same  strong  donkey  fastened  to  it  which 
was  Gottlieb's  patient  companion  in  all  his  journeys  through  the 
forest.  The  wife  looked  very  fair  to  her  husband's  eyes,  in  her 
quiet,  holy,  matronly  beauty,  as  she  stood  there  before  him  in 
her  plain,  gray  woollen  dress,  and  her  Sunday  cloak  and  hood. 
But  fairer  still,  and  far  more  beautiful,  was  the  little  one  she 
held  in  her  arms. 

It  wore  the  same  dress  it  had  on  when  they  found  it;  for,  said 
Gertrude,  "  I  will  give  it  to  God  hi  the  same  garments  in  which 
he  gave  it  to  me." 

It  was  a  delicate  little  robe  of  richly-wrought  muslin,  finer 
and  softer  than  anything  that  had  ever  before  been  seen  inside 
the  forester's  cottage.  Outside  this  was  many  a  wrapping  of 
soft,  warm  flannel,  and  on  her  golden  curls  was  placed  a  little 
cap,  with  its  delicate  frill  of  lace,  just  shading  the  fair,  spiritual 
face.  "  Dear  child  !  "  whispered  Gertrude,  as  she  clasped  it  to 
her  bosom.  She  took  her  seat  in  the  sled  beside  her  husband, 
and  then,  turning  to  Gottlieb,  remarked  — 

"  I  hope  the  little  one  won't  cry  very  much.     Our  other  children 


CHRISTIANA  :    OK,    THE   CHRISTMAS   GIFT.  89 

have  been  pretty  quiet  at  their  christenings ;  but  you  know  no 
child  takes  to  the  water  naturally." 

"  Are  there  any  children  to  be  baptized  this  morning  ?  "  asked 
the  old  pastor,  standing  up  in  his  place  before  he  began  the 
services. 

Gottlieb  Schwiden  arose,  and  walked  to  the  altar.  "  I  have 
brought  one,"  he  answered. 

The  old  man  smiled,  as  he  said,  "  Another  lamb  for  the  church 
of  Christ  ?  God  hath  blessed  thee  very  abundantly,  my  son." 

"  Yes,  my  father,  and  this  one  is  God-given,"  answered  the 
forester ;  and,  standing  up  there  before  the  congregation,  he  told 
the  story  of  his  little  foundling,  and  begged  that  thanks  might 
be  returned  in  his  name  to  the  good  God  who  had  sent  tho 
Christmas  gift. 

"  Let  the  child  be  presented  for  baptism,"  said  the  pastor  at 
the  close  of  the  lessons  ;  and  Gottlieb  Schwiden  stepped  forward 
to  the  altar,  with  Gertrude,  his  wife.  At  the  same  moment, 
into  the  church  came  a  lady  very  bright  and  beautiful.  Her 
face  was  pure  as  the  angel  faces  we  see  in  the  clouds  at  sunset, 
and  her  rich  robes  swept  the  rush-matting  of  the  long  aisle. 
"  I  am  the  child's  godmother,"  she  said  to  Gertrude,  in  a  low 
and  gentle  tone,  approaching  the  altar.  "You  will  never  see 
me  again  till  the  little  one  shall  need  me ;  but  my  influence  will 
be  around  her,  and  I  shall  be  powerful  to  protect  her,  in  more 
ways  than  you  dream  of  now.  Will  you  give  her  to  me  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Gertrude  hesitated.  She  thought  of  spirits, 
and  genii,  and  the  beautiful  sisters  of  the  Hartz  Mountains,  and 
she  turned  once  more  an  earnest,  curious  look  upon  the  stranger. 

The  child  looked  at  her,  too,  with  its  great  blue  eyes,  and, 
S* 


90  CHRISTIANA:  OK,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

stretching  toward  her  its  dimpled  arms,  a  strange,  sweet  smile 
broke  over  its  baby  face ;  and  Gertrude  said,  "  The  child  is  wiser 
than  I,  for  she  has  been  a  shorter  time  out  of  heaven."  Then 
turning,  she  put  the  babe  in  the  strange  lady's  arms,  and  made  a 
sign  to  the  pastor  to  proceed. 

In  a  few  moments  the  sacred  rite  was  over.  All  this  time,  the 
same  sweet  smile  was  on  the  fair  child's  face,  and  just  parted  her 
rose-bud  lips.  Not  until  the  strange  lady  gave  her  back  to  Ger 
trude's  arms  did  it  fade  away ;  then,  for  a  moment,  the  little 
Christiana  closed  her  eyes  in  a  kind  of  patient  sorrow ;  and  at 
length,  as  if  weary,  laid  her  head  down  upon  her  foster-mother's 
breast. 


The  turkey  was  indeed  nicely  done,  and  the  mother  found  the 
table  spread,  and  the  children  neatly  dressed  for  their  Christmas 
supper. 

When  it  was  over,  the  father  piled  fresh  Yule  logs  on  the  fire, 
and,  taking  his  baby  Heinrich  on  his  knee,  sat  down  before  it ; 
and  the  mother  drew  up  her  low  seat  in  the  midst  of  her  children, 
with  the  little  Christiana  lying  upon  her  lap. 

Sitting  there,  as  the  night-shadows  lengthened,  she  told  of 
that  other  Christmas,  centuries  ago,  when  the  divine  Christ-child 
had  been  born  in  the  lowly  manger  at  Bethlehem. 

"  And  was  the  great  God  really  a  weeny,  little  baby,  like  this 
new  sister  Christiana  ? "  asked  the  little  Maud,  lifting  uncon 
sciously  her  large,  thoughtful  eyes. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  answered  the  mother  reverently.     "  Just  such  a 


CHRISTIANA:  OK,  THE  CHEISTMAS  GIFT.  91 

little  baby  God  the  Son  became  for  our  sakes,  that  He  might 
grow  up  among  men,  and  as  man  be  tempted." 

"And  couldn't  He  stir,  any  more  than  Christie, — nor  walk, 
nor  talk,  nor  creep,  nor  anything  ?  " 

"  No,  my  darlings ;  He  became  a  little,  weak  infant,  and,  like 
other  babies,  had  to  be  nursed  and  tended." 

"  I  've  been  thinking,  mother,"  said  Marie,  very  thoughtfully, 
4  that  when  the  God-child  was  born  there,  it  was  as  if  the  whole 
world  had  had  a  glorious  Christmas  present ;  for  you  say,  moth 
er,  He  came  to  die  for  all  men." 

"  Yes,  dear  child,  it  was  indeed  the  world's  Christmas  present ; 
but,  even  as  little  Christie,  last  night,  would  have  done  us  no 
good,  but  rather  been  a  condemnation  to  us,  if  we  had  not 
brought  her  into  the  house  and  accepted  her,  so  the  divine  gift 
of  a  Saviour  will  do  us  no  good,  if  we  do  not  accept  him,  and 
bring  him  into  the  house  of  our  hearts." 

The  children  listened  to  their  mother  in  silent  earnestness ;  and 
later  still,  when  she  told  them  of  the  great  Christmas  fires  in 
lordly  castles,  and  the  Christmas  trees,  where  the  rich  gifts  hang 
like  fruit,  with  glistening  eyes  they  stole  softly  up,  on  tiptoe,  to 
the  little  one  lying  there,  in  the  fire-shine,  on  their  mother's  lap, 
and  kissed  her,  with  hearts  thankful  for  the  richer  Christmas  gift 
that  had  been  theirs. 


Years  passed  away.  The  Hartz  Mountains  rose  solemnly,  as  of 
old ;  the  great  trees  in  the  forest  seemed  unchanged,  as  the  mosses 
grew  gray  upon  their  trunks  in  summer,  or  the  snows  of  winter 
dressed  them  in  fantastic  winding-sheets.  But  there  had  been 


92  CHRISTIANA:  OR,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

i 
changes  in  the  house  of  Gottlieb  Schwiden.     The  forester's  form 

was  becoming  slightly  bowed,  and  his  step  getting  a  little  slower, 
while  many  a  thread  of  silver  was  braided  in  his  wife's  fair  hair. 
Carl  and  Johan  had  built  their  houses  near  at  hand,  and  brought 
home  quiet,  sensible  German  girls,  for  their  wives.  A  handsome 
young  forester,  too,  came  often  to  the  house,  on  Sundays  and 
holidays  ;  and  the  mother  sighed  as  her  glance  rested  on  Marie's 
quiet  little  figure,  and  thought  how  soon  it  must  go  forth  to 
gladden  another  home. 

Christiana,  too,  had  grown  up  along  with  the  other  children, 
and  every  day  she  seemed  more  and  more  worthy  of  her  name. 
Many  a  traveller  along  the  forest  road  would  pause  to  look  upon 
the  fair,  spiritual  face,  with  its  large  blue  eyes ;  and  many  a  shin 
ing  silver  piece  found  its  way,  through  her  little  fingers,  into  the 
cofiers  of  the  good  man  Gottlieb  Schwiden. 

There  was  a  deserted  wayside  chapel  near  at  hand,  almost  in 
ruins ;  but  there  hung  a  picture  of  the  Virgin,  untouched  by  the 
wasting  hand  of  tune,  for  it  was  a  glorious  old  masterpiece, 
and  no  one  saw  it  but  to  wonder  how  it  had  chanced  to  hang  in 
such  a  shrine.  This  was  the  little  Christiana's  favorite  resort. 
Gertrude  had  many  times  told  her  the  story  of  her  christening, 
and  always  added  that  the  sweet  face  of  her  unknown  god 
mother  was  as  like  to  the  picture  in  the  ruined  chapel  as  if  the 
Virgin  had  stepped  out  of  her  frame  to  come  to  the  christening. 

Therefore  the  fair  child  loved  the  sweet  face  of  the  Virgin, 
and  studied  it  until  it  looked  forth  at  her  from  every  cloud,  and 
smiled  up  at  her  from  each  stream  in  the  forest.  And,  strange 
to  say,  people  said  the  child's  own  face  grew  like  to  the  blessed 
Virgin's,  as  if  features  could  take  coloring  from  thought.  And 


CHKISTIANA  :    OE,    THE   CHRISTMAS   GIFT.  93 

it  was  true, —  so  you  may  remember  this,  dear  children,  —  if  you 
think  of  God,  and  heaven,  and  angels,  and  all  things  good  and 
pure,  your  faces  will  grow  pure  and  sweet  also,  like  the  disciple 
whom  Jesus  loved ;  but  always  a  wicked  heart  looks  out  of 
wicked  eyes. 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  the  sweet  child  Christiana  grew  every 
day  fairer  and  purer ;  and,  at  thirteen  years  old,  her  beauty  was 
famed  in  all  the  country  round.  One  day,  in  the  sunny  German 
summer,  a  young  artist  appeared  at  the  forester's  cottage.  Whether 
he  had  heard  of  Christiana's  beauty,  and  wished  to  paint  her,  or 
whether,  as  he  said,  he  came  only  to  see  the  wayside  Virgin,  I 
do  not  know ;  but  certain  it  is  he  staid  six  weeks  at  the  cottage, 
and  painted,  not  the  Virgin,  but  Christiana ;  and  these  six  weeks 
seemed  the  happiest  of  the  fair  child's  life. 

They  wandered  together  to  many  a  sunny  nook  in  the  dim  for 
est,  and  sat  beside  the  deep  streams,  where  the  water-spirits 
combed  out  their  long  hair,  and  bound  it  up  with  lotus-flowers ; 
singing  strangely  sweet  German  melodies,  the  while  !  Then  they 
strayed  into  the  sunny  glades,  where  the  strawberries  blushed, 
and  the  grapes  grew  purple  in  the  long,  blue  summer ;  and  the 
artist  opened  another  leaf  of  the  great  world,  for  the  child's 
large  blue  eyes  to  read. 

He  told  her  of  distant  cities,  where  the  ladies'  hair  was  braided 
up  with  jewels,  and  their  robes  were  wrought  with  gold;  where 
silk  rustled,  and  plumes  nodded,  through  the  long  halls  hung  with 
pictures,  and  flashing  with  mirrors ;  and  the  girl  listened  with  a 
pleased,  half-doubtful  wonder,  opening  wider,  the  while,  those 
large  blue  eyes. 

But  she  loved  best  to  learn  of  him  the  pleasant  lore  of  the 


U4  CHRISTIANA  :    OK,    TEE   CHRISTMAS   GIFT. 

fairy-land,  to  call  the  fairy  people  by  their  names,  and  hold  her 
breath  as  she  thought  of  tall  forms  stealing  over  the  Hartz 
Mountains,  and  through  the  lonesome  passes  of  the  forest.  To 
the  artist  she  seemed  but  a  child ;  fair  and  gentle,  indeed,  but  a 
child  still. 

Her  foster-sister  Maud  was,  if  the  thing  be  possible,  almost  as 
beautiful  as  herself;  but  it  was  a  very  different  style  of  beauty. 
While  Christiana  might  have  claimed  kindred  with  the  angels, 
•—for,  looking  in  her  face,  you'would  have  dreamed  some  band  of 
seraphs  had  strayed  earthward,  and  left  one  of  their  number  be 
hind,  by  a  mistake, — Maud's  beauty  was  essentially  earthly. 

Well  had  the  forester  been  rewarded  for  his  care  of  his  Christ 
mas  gift,  by  the  influence  she  exerted  on  his  other  daughters. 

It  was  impossible  to  be  rude,  or  harsh,  in  the  pure,  sweet  pres 
ence  of  the  Christmas-child ;  and  so  Maud  and  Katrine  had  grown 
up  to  be  calm,  graceful  girls,  with  much  of  Christiana's  poeti- 
temperament  blending  with  their  German  common  sense. 

Maud  had  still  the  dark,  thoughtful  eyes  of  her  childhood, 
large  and  bright,  and  yet  full  of  shadows  among  their  brightness ; 
but  her  strong  physical  organization  had  imparted  to  them  an 
unfailing  cheerfulness,  which  sometimes  deepened  into  mirth. 
Her  figure  was  full,  almost  voluptuous,  in  its  outline ;  while  Chris 
tiana's  had  the  pliant,  breezy  gracefulness  of  the  drooping  willow. 
Five  years  Christiana's  senior,  she  had  already  ripened  into 
the  beautiful  woman  of  eighteen,  and  on  her  the  young  artist, 
Ernest  Heine,  looked  with  eyes  of  love. 

•True,  he  saw  the  sweet  Christmas-child  was  the  one  who  truly 
appreciated  his  genius ;  who  shared  his  rapture  as  the  sun  went 
down  behind  the  mountains,  flinging  back  the  robe  of  his  glory 


CHRISTIANA:  on,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT.  95 

upon  their  lofty  tops ;  and  when  he  looked  on  her,  he  loved  her 
as  he  might  have  loved  the  muse  of  his  art,  clothed  in  mortality ; 
but  of  such  love  as  man  gives  woman  he  never  thought. 

Upon  Maud  he  looked  as  a  beautiful  flower,  from  whose  petals 
no  other  touch  had  ever  rifled  the  sweetness,  and  he  longed  to 
wear  her  in  his  bosom ;  nor  did  he  leave  the  forest  until  he  had 
won  Gottlieb's  consent  to  call  her  his,  and  claim  her,  when  two 
more  years  had  silvered  the  larches,  and  left  their  tribute  of  moss 
on  the  gnarled  trunks  of  the  oaks. 

And  Maud  loved  him  as  such  girls  can  love,  with  a  love  that 
deepened  the  rose  on  her  cheek,  and  the  light  in  her  eye ;  but 
yet,  if  Ernest  Heine  had  come  no  more  to  the  cottage,  her  heart 
would  not  have  broken,  or  her  step  grown  heavy,  and  by  and  by, 
like  her  sister,  she  would  have  gone,  contented  and  happy,  to  be 
the  mistress  of  some  other  home.  The  artist  left,  and,  as  the 
spirit  of  the  Summer  clasped  hands  with  Autumn,  and  walked 
backward  over  her  fair  domain,  the  slight  figure  of  the  Christ 
mas-child  grew  thinner,  and  slighter,  until  she  seemed  more  than 
ever  akin  to  the  angels. 

That  winter  there  came  a  messenger  to  the  forest.  The  em 
peror  had  heard  of  the  fame  of  the  wayside  Madonna,  and  sent 
for  it  to  adorn  a  new  chapel,  in  process  of  erection  in  the  impe 
rial  grounds.  It  was  a  sore  grief  to  Christiana ;  but,  after  a  while, 
the  old  smile  came  back  to  her  eyes,  as  she  playfully  told  her 
mother  she  was  richer  than  the  emperor,  for  he  could  only  see 
the  Madonna  in  the  chapel,  while  she  could  see  her  smile  from 
every  cloud,  and  look  out  of  every  stream. 

But  another  grief  came  to  the  family  at  the  cottage.  Gott- 
iieb  was  out  one  day  in  ihe  forest,  when  there  came  up  a  sudden 


96  CHRISTIANA:  OK,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

storm ;  and  one  of  the  huge  black  oaks,  torn  up  by  its  roots,  was 
hurried  along  for  several  rods,  and,  reaching  him  in  its  path, 
hurled  him  to  the  ground,  and,  falling  upon  one  of  his  legs,  crushed 
it  to  fragments. 

Fortunately,  his  two  sons  being  at  no  great  distance,  his  cries 
speedily  summoned  them  to  his  aid,  and  he  was  borne  home.  He 
recovered  his  wonted  health,  indeed,  but  it  was  pitiful  to  see  the* 
bold  forester  of  other  days  plodding  round  with  his  staff  and 
his  wooden  leg. 

It  was  but  a  few  weeks  after  this  when  news  came  that  the 
emperor's  new  chapel  had  taken  fire,  and,  together  with  the  way 
side  Madonna,  been  burned  to  the  ground.  With  this  news 
came  a  proclamation  that,  for  the  best  Madonna  which  should  be 
painted  in  his  own  dominions,  the  emperor  had  offered  so  large  a 
sum  of  money  that  it  would  make  the  successful  artist  inde 
pendent  for  life.  It  was  now  nearly  spring,  and  the  decision  on 
the  merits  of  the  different  pictures  was  fixed  for  two  years  from 
the  following  summer. 

Christiana  listened  to  all  this,  thoughtfully  at  first,  and,  by 
and  by,  with  a  new  light  stealing  into  her  deep  eyes  ;  and  when 
the  evening  shadows  gathered  round  the  quiet  hearth,  she  came, 
and,  kneeling  at  her  parents'  feet,  prayed  that  she  might  go  forth 
from  the  forest.  She  spoke  of  the  prize  that  had  beon  offered, 
and  told  how  she  had  heard  of  a  school  for  artists,  where  every 
year  three  poor  persons  were  freely  admitted. 

"  Let  me  go,  dear  parents,"  she  concluded;  "I  will  study  as  no 
one  else  can  study,  and  I  will  win  the  prize." 

There  was  I  know  not  what  of  inspiration  in  her  uplifted  face, 
the  clear,  spiritual  brow,  and  the  earnest  eyes.  The  husband 


CHRISTIANA  :   OR,   THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT.  97 

and  wife  looked  on  her  silently.  In  Gertrude's  motherly  eyes 
the  great  tears  gathered ;  and  at  last  she  said,  with  a  trembling 
voice, 

"  Gottlieb,  my  husband,  our  Christmas-child  has  always  been 
a  blessing  to  us,  —  when  did  we  know  her  judgment  to  guide  her 
wrong  ?  It  is  the  voice  of  her  destiny  calling  to  her ;  we  must 
let  her  go  forth." 

And  her  husband  said,  "  Yes,  Christiana,  —  God-given,  —  go 
where  thy  heart  tells  thee ;  and  may  God  be  good  to  thee,  as  thou 
hast  been  good  to  us,  all  the  days  of  thy  life  !  "  and  he  crossed 
his  hands  in  blessing  upon  her  bowed  head. 

Then  the  young  girl  rose  up,  and  stole  away  in  the  twilight 
to  her  own  little  room  ;  and,  as  she  glanced  on  her  way  at  the 
scantily-spread  table  in  the  corner,  tears  almost  choked  the 
voice  which  whispered,  "  There  will  be  one  mouth  less  to 
feed  ! " 

It  was  a  week  before  the  exhibition  of  the  prize-pictures ; 
and  Christiana  sat  alone  in  her  studio,  giving  the  last  touches 
to  a  beautiful  Madonna.  Wearily  had  the  girl-artist  toiled 
and  studied,  and  many  a  time  had  her  lamp  grown  dim,  in  the 
gray  light  of  morning,  as  she  worked  alone  at  the  beloved  pic 
ture.  She  had  completed  it,  at  length,  and  she  threw  herself 
upon  her  knees,  with  tears  of  thankfulness  raining  from  her 
eyes. 

Another  week,  and  a  breathless  crowd  were  awaiting  the 
imperial  decision  in  the  hall  of  exhibition.  There  were  jew 
elled  countesses  and  sabred  knights ;  and  there,  in  the  brilliant 
light,  hung  the  seventy  prize-pictures.  Many  times  had  the 
9 


98  CHRISTIANA:  OR,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

emperor  walked  thoughtfully  up  and  down  the  hall,  his  eyes 
kindling  before  paintings,  almost  all  of  them  masterpieces 
of  art. 

At  last  he  slowly  paused,  and,  indicating  with  his  sceptre  the 
chosen  picture,  he  exclaimed, 

"  This  alone  is  worthy  to  fill  the  niche  in  the  new  chapel ;  this 
alone  the  exact  counterpart  of  the  lost  Madonna.  Let  the  artist 
come  forward ! " 

There  was  a  moment's  breathless  silence  ;  —  then  a  faint  rus 
tling  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  and  down  through  the  midst 
came  a  white-robed  figure.  At  first,  many  crossed  themselves 
and  bowed  their  heads,  as  if  they  had  seen  an  angel,  and  all 
eyes  turned  upon  her  with  a  strange  surprise.  She  was  a 
young  girl,  with  a  face  as  pale  and  fair  as  her  snowy  robe. 
Her  long,  golden  curls  fell  about  her,  as  she  tripped  onward 
like  a  spirit,  and  stood,  at  last,  with  bowed  head,  before  the 
emperor. 

Tears  dimmed  even  his  proud  eyes  for  a  moment,  as  he  gazed 
on  the  humble,  silent,  graceful  child  before  him,  and  then  said, 
with  father-like  pity,  "  God  grant  you  may  not  have  wrought 
your  life  into  this  picture,  my  sweet  child  !  "  and  then  he  placed  a 
crown  of  silver  myrtle-leaves  upon  her  forehead,  and  in  her  hand 
the  well-earned  reward. 

That  night  another  form  stood  beside  Christiana  in  her  little 
study,  and  the  voice  of  Ernest  Heine  pleaded  wildly  with  her 
for  her  love. 

"  I  never  loved  Maud,"  he  concluded ;  "  I  paid  her  beauty 
homage,  and  I  thought  of  you  as  a  mere  child.  I  have 
watched  you  since  then,  Christie,  many  an  hour,  and  a  love  for 


CHRISTIANA  :    OU,    THE   CHRISTMAS   GIFT.  99 

you  has  grown  into  my  soul,  so  wild,  so  strong,  I  think  it  will 
kill  me  or  drive  me  mad  to  see  you  another's.  Christie,  pure, 
beautiful  child-angel,  will  you  answer  me  ?  " 

Drawing  her  hand  firmly,  but  very  gently,  from  the  clasp 
which  held  it,  the  young  girl  answered  : 

"  Gottlieb  Schwiden  and  his  wife  saved  me  from  death ;  — 
they  have  brought  me  up  and  loved  me  as  their  own,  and  shall 
I  cause  their  child  to  suffer  ?  No,  no,  Ernest  Heine,  look  not 
at  me  so  beseechingly  !  I  am  no  viper  to  sting  the  breast  which 
wanned  me ;  —  as  God  hears  me,  I  will  never  be  your  wife.  But 
you  have  been  much  to  me.  You  first  taught  me  how  to  love 
my  art,  and  I  will  never  pain  you,  if  it  would  be  pain  to  see  me 
another's.  I  will  be  my  art's  bride  now,  and  by  and  by  the  bride 
of  death.  No,  no,  Ernest,  do  not  talk  to  me  any  more ;  go  now, 
—  next  time  we  meet,  brother  Ernest,  I  will  be  bridesmaid  at 
Maud's  wedding." 

The  young  man  saw  it  was  hopeless  to  say  more,  and  slowly 
and  sorrowfully  he  went  out.  Then,  indeed,  came  for  Christiana 
an  hour  of  most  bitter  agony,  a  trial  than  which  death  had 
scarcely  been  more  terrible.  Kneeling  there,  with  bowed  head 
and  clasped  hands,  she  could  find  no  voice  to  pray ;  but  the  very 
attitude  seemed  to  carry  consolation  with  it,  and  the  triumphant 
artist  knelt  there  alone  for  hours  in  that  humble  room,  wrestling 
with  the  tide-waves  of  a  crushing  and  most  mighty  sorrow. 
She  had  put  away  from  her,  with  her  own  hands,  a  cup  of  hope 
beaded  to  the  brim  with  bubbling  drops  of  joy.  She  had  sent 
one  forth  in  anguish  who  was  dearer  to  her  than  life ;  and  along 
her  own  track  had  withered  all  the  roses,  and  left  nothing  for 
her  clinging  hands  but  thorns.  But  she  had  done  right ;  —  out 


100  CHRISTIANA  :    OE,    THE    CHRISTMAS   GIFT. 

of  the  depths  she  could  lay  hold  of  the  consolations  our  God  has 
promised  to  those  who  fear  Him,  and  by  and  by  her  soul  grew 
strong. 

Two  days  after,  she  alighted  from  a  travelling-carriage  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  forest-cottage.  She  wished  to  gaze 
unseen  upon  those  she  loved ;  and  she  stole  softly  in  at  the  back 
door.  The  first  tones  of  Gottlieb's  voice  arrested  her,  they  were 
so  strangely  sad. 

"  It 's  all  over,  wife,"  he  said  ;  "  we  must  go  to-morrow  out 
from  the  forest-cottage,  and  with  no  longer  a  roof  to  cover  us. 
I  cannot  stay,  except  I  pay  five  hundred  thalers,  —  I,  who  could 
not  raise  as  many  hunderts !  " 

" '  I  have  been  young,  and  now  am  old,' "  said  his  wife,  solemn 
ly  >  "  '  y^  I  have  never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed 
begging  bread.' " 

A  moment,  and  Christiana  was  kneeling  at  their  feet,  and 
pouring  many  times  five  hundred  thalers  into  the  mother's 
lap! 

Six  weeks  later,  and  there  waa  a  bridal  at  the  cottage,  for 
Maud  was  wedded  to  her  artist-lover ;  and  no  one  noted  that 
the  bridesmaid's  cheeks  were  paler  than  the  snow-drops  in  her 
hair. 

Many  years  later  still,  when  title-deeds  of  the  Duchy  of  Saxe- 
Coburg  came  to  Christiana,  she  learned  the  name  of  the  proud  and 
beautiful  lady,  who,  by  an  ill-starred  marriage,  had  become  her 
mother,  and  afterwards  her  godmother. 

But  she  sent  the  empty  honors  back,  and  staid  in  her  own 
home  to  cheer  the  old  age  of  her  foster-parents ;  and,  when  at 


CHRISTIANA;  OR,  THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT.  101 

last  they  were  gathered  to  their  fathers,  she  held  in  hers  their 
trembling  fingers  as  they  passed  through  the  valley  and  shadow 
of  death ;  and,  bending  down  to  catch  the  last  words  faltering 
on  Gertrude's  lips,  she  thanked  God,  for  the  dying  woman 
whispered,  "  Whoso  receiveth  one  such  little  child  in  my  name, 
receiveth  me  !  " 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    WIND. 


THE  voice  of  the  wind  seems  wailing, 
But  it  breathes  no  wail  to  me ; 

'T  is  only  a  tone  and  a  message 
From  one  lying  under  the  saa. 

"  Hath  the  storm-wind  a  voice,  dear  mother  ? 

And  what  does  it  seem  to  say, 
When  it  comes  to  the  window  at  night-fall, 
Or  lifts  up  the  latch  in  its  play  ?  " 

"  Come  hither,  my  little  daughter, 
And  kneel  in  the  red  fire-light, 
And  put  back  the  curls  from  thy  forehead, 
And  lift  up  thine  eyes  so  bright." 

"  "Why  trembles  the  hand,  dear  mother, 

You  're  laying  upon  my  hair  ? 
And  why  do  you  droop  your  eyelids, 
So  heavy  with  tears  or  care  ?  " 

"  I  think  of  a  grave,  my  daughter, 

Where  the  storm-winds  sing  their  hymn, 
And  a  shroud  of  pearl  and  coral, 
And  mine  eyes  with  tears  are  dim. 


THE   TOICE   OS1   THE   WIND.  103 

"  There  are  lids  like  thine,  my  daughter, 

Closed  under  the  salt  sea's  flow, 
And  a  voice  that  I  love  is  blending 
With  the  winds,  in  a  murmur  low. 

"  A  stately  ship,  one  morning, 

Went  forth  on  the  smiling  main, 
But  she  never  sent  back  any  message, 
And  she  never  came  again, 

"  Till  a  night,  when  the  storm-winds,  blowing, 

Stole  into  my  lonely  room, 
And  told  me  a  tale  in  the  darkness, 
And  whispered  my  name  in  the  gloom. 

"  Then  I  knew  that  the  winds  had  laid  him 

Where  the  sky  is  blue  above, 

And  the  South  Sea  lifts  his  tresses, 

Like  the  hand  of  one  we  love  ! 

'   And  the  wind  and  the  storm,  my  daughter, 

They  make  my  heart  rejoice, 
-  For  ever  I  catch  the  echoes 

Of  a  well-remembered  voice  ! 

"  Thou  art  asleep  now,  little  daughter, 

And  thy  head  is  upon  my  knee, 
But  the  wind  wails  on  in  the  darkness, 
In  its  flight  from  the  desolate  sea  ; 

"  And  the  hopes  of  my  youth  are  shrouded 

With  the  days  that  once  have  been, 
And  I  heed  not  the  rain  that  falls  without 
For  the  tears  that  fall  within." 


POOR  AND   FRIENDLESS. 


GATHER  up  your  dress !  Closer !  There,  that  is  right.  She 
cannot  hit  so  much  as  the  hem  of  your  robe,  now,  —  the  little 
pauper ! 

How  her  thin  frock  clings  to  her  shivering  limbs !  She  has 
oare  feet,  too;  and  the  tangled  elf-locks  are  peeping-  from 
beneath  the  tattered  hood. 

What  a  sight  she  is,  to  be  sure !  You  wonder  poor  people 
will  let  their  children  go  out  in  the  street  looking  so  indecently. 
Hush !  she  is  speaking  to  you :  "  Please,  ma'am,  for  the  love  of 
Heaven,  give  me  a  little  bread  for  my  poor  old  grandmother  !  " 

O,  you  must  preserve  your  dignity,  young  lady!  It  will 
never  do  to  be  accosted  by  such  persons  in  the  street. 

Tell  her  you  are  Col.  Lofton's  daughter ;  she  must  know  you 
have  no  time  to  spend  with  idle,  worthless  beggars.  That's 
right !  She  knows  who  you  are  now !  You  have  preserved  your 
dignity  admirably ;  no  fear  of  her  annoying  you  again. 

There  she  goes,  homeward.  Now  you  notice  it,  she  does  walk 
very  gracefully.  Those  chilled  limbs,  which  her  poor  robe  re 
veals  so  plainly,  are  chiselled  like  a  model  from  the  sculptor. 

Those  eyes,  too,  that  she  raised  to  your  face,  filled  with  the 
mournful  agony  which  we  read  sits  in  the  fixed,  settled  gaze 
of  the  drowning,  agony  that  only  comes  to  us  when  the  life- 
waves  have  surged  away  our  last  hope,  —  those  dark,  despair- 


THE    FIRST    KIND    WOHD. 


POOR   AND   FRIENDLESS.  105 

ing  eyes  wear  a  strange,  weird  beauty.  The  pale  face  is  one 
that  might  have  broken  the  heart  of  Paris,  —  but  you  said  well, 
she  is  a  beggar !  Poor  in  all  things,  save  this  ill-fated  beauty, 
which  is  a  double  woe  to  its  possessor ! 

On  she  goes,  down  close,  dirty  streets,  and  now  up,  up,  many 
a  flight  of  steps  in  that  rickety  old  house. 

Do  you  hear  that  sharp  voico  asking,  "  Hey,  child,  what  you 
got  ? "  and  the  answer,  —  the  fierce  blows,  and  the  low  wail. 

What  wonder  that  she  rushes  down,  down,  and  goes  out  weep 
ing  into  the  cold,  miserable  streets  ?  And  now,  for  the  first  time, 
she  hears  sweet  words  of  kindness ! 

He  is  very  handsome,  that  young  gentleman  who  has  paused 
to  speak  to  her.  True,  there  is  an  expression  of  dissolute  sel 
fishness  around  the  ripe  and  well-cut  lips ;  but  the  girl  heeds  it 
not.  They  utter  the  first  words  of  kindness  she  has  heard  in  a 
lifetime. 

She  was  born  in  a  fierce,  dry  storm.  There  was  a  high  wind, 
and  dark  clouds,  and  moans  and  sighings  in  the  air;  but  no 
gentle,  pitying  rain,  falling  like  the  quiet  drops  of  a  human 
sorrow. 

Wilder,  wilder  blew  the  gale,  when  the  little  pauper  opened 
her  eyes  on  life ;  and  they  carried  her  dead  mother  out,  and 
buried  her  where  the  spot  is  fenced  about  for  nameless  pauper 
graves,  within  the  village  church-yard. 

Strange,  is  n't  it,  that  the  poor  child's  heart  bounds  at  these 
first  words  of  love  ?  Strange  she  should  be  so  imprudent  as  to 
go  home  with  him  who,  for  the  first  time,  offers  her  fire,  and 
food,  and  shelter ! 

Strange,  too,  that  she  should  look  so  much  like  a  lady,  —  so 


106  POOR  AND  FRIENDLESS. 

much  like  one  of  your  set,  Miss  Lofton,  —  now  that  the  tangled 
hair  is  braided  up  with  jewels,  and  the  slender  figure  draped  in 
silks  and  satin.  But  the  vain  man  wearies  at  length  of  his 
plaything. 

He  has  taught  her  the  lore  of  many  a  land,  —  the  transcen 
dentalism  of  the  Germans,  the  gay  infidelity  of  France,  —  but 
never  once  life's  greatest  lesson,  "  Thou,  God,  seest  me  !  " 

What  wonder  that  she  falls  lower  and  lower,  until,  with  a 
still  more  haughty  contempt,  you  gather  up  your  jewelled  robe, 
and  cross  the  side-walk  to  avoid  the  contamination  of  her  pres 
ence  !  True,  Jesus  said  to  such  an  one,  in  other  days,  "  Go, 
daughter,  sin  no  more  ;  "  but  you  —  0,  you  have  a  code  of  morals 
a  shade  purer  than  the  carpenter  of  Galilee  ! 

But  "  there  's  an  hour  that  comes  to  all ; "  some  time  the 
scenes  of  that  first  night  may  visit  you,  —  there  may  be  stains 
upon  your  robe  you  will  not  care  to  see.  ; 

"  Ah !  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head  ; 
Not  thrice  your  branching  liines  have  blown 
Since  I  beheld  the  pauper  dead  !  " 


KATE  LYNN'S   BRIDAL. 

A  STORY  OF   THE    FIRST   OF  MAY. 

Ix  commencing  a  household  tale  of  our  quiet  little  village,  let 
me  warn  the  reader  to  expect  no  highly-wrought  dreams  of 
poetry  or  romance.  The  quiet  development  of  a  character  formed 
amid  the  woods  and  glens  of  New  England  is  the  most  I  can 
promise  him. 

Kate  Lynn  was  no  beauty,  after  the  type  which  poets  and 
painters  have  dreamed  and  pictured.  Indeed,  by  the  side  of 
Blanche  Ingram,  she  would  have  been  called  quite  plain,  and 
Mistress  Genevra  Fanshawe  would  have  annihilated  her  preten 
sions  altogether.  Her  father,  Doctor  Francis  Lynn,  was  a  kind, 
noble,  good-hear  led  man,  —  a  physician  of  the  old  school,  and, 
sooth  to  say,  he  lost  no  more  lives  by  his  adherence  to  system 
than  he  saved  by  his  quiet  benevolence  and  more  than  fatherly 
care.  His  house  had  been  a  widower's  mansion  for  several  years 
before  my  acquaintance  with  the  beautiful  village  of  Byefield ; 
but  I  had  heard  many  a  tale  of  a  gentle,  sweet-voiced  woman, 
who  used  to  wander  over  hill  and  meadow-land  by  his  side,  and 
who  closed  her  blue  eyes  at  last,  in  a  dreamless  sleep,  with  her 
head  lying  on  his  breast.  At  the  time  our  story  opens,  Kate 
Lynn  was  a  graceful  girl  of  nineteen,  as  blithe  and  merry  as 
the  wild  fawn  in  a  Western  forest.  Her  complexion  was 


108  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

a  clear  brunette,  and  her  large  black  eyes  were  the  reflex  of  as 
pure  a  soul  as  ever  shrined  itself  in  a  human  temple. 

She  looked  almost  beautiful  sometimes,  with  the  crimson  rose 
buds  knotted  in  the  heavy  braids  of  her  raven  hair ;  but  her 
features  were  far  from  regular,  and  you  would  have  been  as 
much  puzzled  to  find  a  natural  rank  for  her  loveliness,  as  a  con 
noisseur  who  should  attempt  to  criticize,  by  classic  rules,  the 
anomalous,  half-barbaric,  and  yet  tasteful,  architecture  of  some 
of  our  modern  buildings. 

Such  a  treasure  of  a  house-wife  as  was  our  Kate,  —  so  exact,  so 
neat,  with  the  clean  cloth  always  spread  on  her  bright,  mahogany 
table,  at  just  such  an  hour,  the  napkins  looking  like  full-blown 
white  lilies  in  their  tasteful  rings,  and  the  fresh  fruit  bedded 
thick  in  green  and  clustering  leaves  ! 

Such  a  picture  of  comfort  as  was  her  snug  little  parlor,  of  an 
evening, — the  bright  fire  burning  in  the  polished  grate;  the 
easy-chair  drawn  up  before  it;  the  gay,  tasteful  slippers,  em 
broidered  by  Kate's  own  white  fingers;  and,  sweeter,  fairer 
than  all,  our  tiny  little  Kate  herself,  perched  on  a  low  stool  at 
the  window,  listening,  as  it  seemed,  with  heart  and  eyes,  as  well 
as  ears,  for  her  father's  well-known  footsteps  upon  the  gravel- 
walk. 

Kate  had  a  sister  —  a  fair,  graceful  girl,  whom  every  one 
called  "  sweet  Lizzie  Lynn."  She  was  just  fifteen  when  our 
story  opens,  and  the  gayest,  merriest,  and,  withal,  the  prettiest 
little  sprite  you  could  meet  between  Maine  and  Louisiana. 

Kate  Lynn  was  scarcely  ten  years  old  when  her  dying  mother 
had  placed  the  little  Lizzie's  hand  in  hers.  "  Kate,"  whispered 
the  dying  woman,  "  you  are  older  than  Lizzie  ;  it  may  be  in  your 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  109 

power  to  guard  her  from  many  sorrows.  Promise  me,  darling, 
that  you  will  give  her,  as  far  as  may  be,  a  mother's  love  ;  that 
you  will  think  no  grief  too  great  to  shield  her  path  from  sadness." 

And  Kate  Lynn  gave  that  solemn  pledge,  kneeling  at  the  side 
of  the  bed,  with  the  deep  eyes  of  the  dying  looking  into  her  own, 
and  the  grief-waves  swelling  and  choking  the  young  life  in  her 
little  heart,  till  it  seemed  as  if  mother  and  child  might  be  fain  to 
rest  them  in  the  same  grave.  There  are  those  who  would 
think  this  a  strange  promise  to  be  exacted  from  a  child  of  ten ; 
but  Mrs.  Lynn  had  read  those  young  hearts,  and  she  knew  her 
children  well. 

It  may  be  that  the  little  Lizzie  was  the  dearest,  on  the  princi 
ple  that  we  become  most  strongly  attached  to  those  who  require 
our  protection,  for  their  very  weakness ;  but  in  the  mother's  love 
for  her  black-eyed  Kate  was  blended  a  strong  commingling  of 
respect.  Already  had  the  child  begun  to  make  manifest  the 
strength  that  was  in  her,  —  strength  of  will,  and  strength  of 
love,  —  and  Mrs.  Lynn  felt  that  she  was  trusting  her  youngest 
darling  to  no  broken  reed,  when  she  confided  her  to  the  love  and 
care  of  her  elder  sister  Kate. 

When  the  sod  was  dropped  upon  her  mother's  coffin,  no  tears 
fell  from  Kate  Lynn's  dark  eyes,  no  cry  escaped  from  her  pallid 
lips ;  only  from  her  struggling  heart  burst  one  sob,  —  so  low,  so 
deep,  it  seemed  more  like  a  moan,  —  and  then  she  was  hushed, 
and  still,  and  very  calm.  She  drew  the  little  L;/zie  to  her 
breast,  and  in  that  hour,  amid  the  throes  of  her  orphan  sor 
row,  was  born  in  Kate  Lynn's  heart  a  love  than  which  no 
mother's  tenderness  was  ever  deeper,  or  more  enduring,  —  a  love 
which  was  destined  to  exert  an  influence  upon  her  whole  future. 
10 


110  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

Kate  had  grown  up  at  home,  educated  by  her  father's  own 
care,  thoroughly,  but  by  no  means  fashionably.  Other  advan 
tages  were  at  her  command,  had  she  chosen;  but  those,  she  said, 
would  be  quite  enough  for  her,  and  "there  would  be  no  one  to 
care  for  papa  "  if  she  were  gone.  So  she  struggled  on,  mindful 
of  his  lightest  wish,  caring  for  his  most  trifling  needs,  guarding 
Lizzie  from  every  touch  of  care  or  sorrow,  and  gleaning,  mean 
while,  many  a  page  of  philosophy  from  the  ponderous  tomes  of 
those  strange  old  writers,  half  sages,  half  seers ;  many  a  gem  of 
sparkling  song  from  quaint  old  poets ;  and  treasuring  in  the  clois 
ters  of  her  pure  young  heart  every  strange  and  mystic  voice  of 
fount  and  woodland. 

But  Lizzie,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  was  most  decidedly  the 
favorite  of  good  Dr.  Lynn.  Perhaps  it  was  her  beauty,  —  singu 
lar  in  its  power  of  fascination,  even  in  her  infancy.  Many  a 
stranger  paused  to  gaze  for  a  moment  on  the  graceful  child, 
with  her  clear  blue  eyes,  and  the  long  tresses  falling  like  a 
shower  of  sunlight  over  her  white  robes.  What  wonder,  then, 
that  this  beauty  should  have  been  all-powerful  at  home,  joined, 
as  it  was,  to  a  voice  and  manner  the  sweetest  in  the  world,  and  a 
disposition  affectionate  even  in  its  unchecked  wilfulness. 

No  home  education  was  good  enough  for  Lizzie !  Hard  as  it 
was  for  Kate  to  part  with  her,  not  for  worlds  would  she  have 
placed  her  wishes  in  even  momentary  opposition  with  what  she 
believed  to  be  for  her  sister's  best  interest.  And  so,  for  three 
years  previous  to  the  opening  of  our  tale,  Lizzie,  now  a  fair 
"young  lady"  of  fifteen,  had  been  a  pupil  at  a  fashionable 
boarding-school  in  a  distant  city. 

Vine  Cottage  (the  pleasant  home  of  good  Dr.  Lynn)   had 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  Ill 

meantime  been  very  lonely,  until  six  months  before  we  introduced 
it  to  our  readers,  when  its  solitude  was  enlivened  by  Stanley 
Grayson,  the  handsomest  of  medical  students.  He  had  become 
almost  like  a  brother  to  our  darling  Kate,  whom  he  seemed  to 
deem  the  very  impersonation  of  all  womanly  loveliness.  I  said 
almost  like  a  brother.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  how  he  proved 
there  *V7as  a  shade's  difference  on  the  first  of  May,  on  which  our 
story  opens. 

For  a  whole  three  weeks  before  this  eventful  first  of  May,  all 
Ryefield  had  been  in  a  state  of  fermentation,  of  which  only  a 
country  village  is  capable.  Many  a  kitchen  had  borne  witness 
to  the  solemnization  of  certain  mysterious  culinary  rites,  by  which 
round,  honest-looking  cakes  were  made  incontinently  to  ingulf 
the  hearts  of  raisins  and  sweetmeats ;  while  cream  turned  pale 
with  the  discovery  that  it  was  freezing  up  in  the  very  glow  of  the 
spring  sunshine ;  and  good,  motherly  hens  looked  with  the  most 
rueful  faces  on  great  piles  of  broken  egg-shells. 

The  one  milliner's  shop,  too,  —  0,  such  consultations  as  were 
holden  there,  such  borrowings  of  patterns,  and  furbishing  of  bon 
nets,  —  such  busy  needles,  seeming  to  glow  and  brighten  in  the 
light  of  smiling  faces ! 

The  young  men  wore  a  look  of  unusual  importance,  and  many 
a  smart  cane  and  new  hat  made  its  appearance  in  the  village 
store,  only  to  be  smuggled  into  obscure  home-nooks  by  these 
modern  Mercuries. 

The  truth  was,  a  grand  picnic  was  to  be  holden  in  the  old  oak 
grove,  and  not  a  pretty  girl  in  Ryefield  but  went  to  sleep  with  an 
earnest  wish  and  a  half-prayer  for  sunshine  and  blue  skies  on 
Shis  long-looked-for  May  morning. 


112  KATE  LYNN'S  BIIIDAL. 

The  wished-for  day  came  at  last,  as  at  last  every  day  must 
come,  whether  it  be  watched  and  longed  for  by  bright  eyes  or 
dreaded  by  fond  hearts,  clinging  to  life  and  love,  and  waking 
to  find  themselves  one  day  nearer  change  and  death.  Surely 
never  was  blue  sky  so  very  blue,  or  green  fields  so  smooth  and 
soft  and  smiling.  And  surely  never  were  young  faces  so  fair,  so 
full  of  all  the  charm  of  refined  friendliness  ! 

The  queen  for  the  day  was  a  proud,  stately-looking  beauty. 
There  was  a  world  of  command  in  her  firm  step,  and  in  every 
gesture  of  that  small,  white  hand.  A  more  than  regal  pride 
flashed  in  her  full,  dark  eye,  and  the  crown  of  the  Bourbons 
never  rested  above  a  brow  more  noble.  Others  were  there,  too, 
young  and  passing  fair ;  but  I  missed  one  face,  dearer  than  all  to 
me.  Hush !  She  was  coming.  Kate  Lynn  was  by  my  side  at 
last,  and  with  her  the  handsome  Stanley  Grayson. 

It  struck  me,  as  I  looked  on  him,  that  I  had  never  seen  a  more 
perfect  type  of  manly  beauty.  His  hair  was  auburn,  with  a  rich 
tint  of  gold,  and  now,  as  he  stood  in  the  sunlight,  it  seemed  all 
a-glow.  His  whole  face  beamed,  and  the  classical  contour  of  his 
lower  features  struck  me  as  it  had  never  done  before. 

The  forehead  was  broad  and  full ;  the  large,  laughing  hazel 
eyes  were  what  the  Scotch  call  bonny  ;  they  had  a  bold,  fearless, 
but  quite  charming  expression,  in  which,  however,  was  blended  a 
certain  something,  which,  against  one's  will,  conveyed  to  the 
mind  a  faint  sense  of  insecurity.  This  something  was  deepened 
in  its  tendency  by  the  mouth  and  chin,  certainly  most  beautiful 
in  themselves,  but  paining  you,  as  it  were,  by  their  very 
beauty, — or,  perhaps,  in  spite  of  it,  —  with  a  vague  feeling  that  it 
were  well  not  to  trust  too  deeply  in  Stanley  Grayson's  power  of 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  113 

continuity.  There  was  a  half-wicked  mirth  there  too,  that  teased 
you,  because  it  always  lurked  there,  without  any  ostensible 
cause.  But,  after  all,  he  was  strangely  handsome;  and  so 
thought  Kate  Lynn,  if  one  could  judge  by  the  unwonted  light  in 
her  bright  black  eyes. 

Kate  was  certainly  a  sweet  girl  in  holiday  costume.  Her 
dress  of  simple  white  muslin  contrasted  beautifully  with  the 
clear  olive  of  her  complexion;  and  the  quaker-like  simplicity  of 
her  black  braids  was  sufficiently  relieved  by  the  crimson  rose 
buds  and  green  leaves  which  nestled  there  as  if  at  home. 

The  day  passed  very  pleasantly,  the  collation  was  a  chef 
d'oeuvre,  and  the  blue  sky  smiled  upon  fair  young  faces,  radiant 
with  the  joy  of  youth,  which,  when  once  gone,  comes  back,  alas  ! 
never  again. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  the  afternoon  when  Kate  Lynn 
found  herself  quite  alone  with  the  handsome  young  physician. 
Over  them  was  the  blue  sky  and  the  bright  sun,  but  the  rays  fell 
upon  them  with  a  tempered  warmth,  through  broad  canopies  of 
thick  oak  boughs ;  the  moss  was  green  and  soft  beneath  them, 
and  warmer,  brighter  than  all,  grew  the  blush  on  Kate  Lynn's 
fair  cheek,  as  the  young  man  threw  himself  on  the  grass  beside 
her,  and  pressed  her  small  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  So,  Katie,  little  one,"  he  whispered,  "  you  think  you  love  me 
just  like  a  brother,  do  you  ? 

"  Why  don't  you  speak,  dear  child  ?  Why,  how  you  're  blush 
ing  !  Ah,  Katie,  darling  !  "  —  and  he  stole  his  arm  about  her 
waist.  "  No,  my  little  Kate,  you  don't  love  me  like  a  brother ; 
you  love  me  as  I  love  you,  far  more  than  that ;  and  by  and  by 
you  '11  be  my  little  wife,  won't  you  ?  Nay,  Kate,  don't  weep  so ; 


114  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL, 

I  am  not  joking ;  /  love  you  —  love  you  as  I  never  loved  woman 
before,  —  I  would  have  you  all  mine.  Can't  you  love  me, 
Katie?  "  0,  how  smiles,  tears  and  blushes,  struggled  for  the 
mastery  over  poor  Katie's  face,  as  she  answered, 

"Yes,  sir ;  yes,  Mr.  Grayson,  you  know  I  love  you  very  much 
indeed." 

"  No,  no,  little  one  ;  that  won't  do.  Not  Mr.  Grayson ; — say, 
'  Stanley,  I  love  you ! '  " 

"  Well,  then,  '  Stanley,  I  love  you  ; '  will  that  do  ?  "  and  sud 
denly  Katie's  manner  regained  all  its  accustomed  archness  and 
naiveti.  0,  how  bright  her  eyes  were  when  she  again  joined  our 
circle,  as  Stanley  Grayson's  betrothed !  She  was  always  womanly, 
and  her  deep  joy  showed  itself  only  in  the  light  in  her  eyes,  and 
the  new  music-tone  which  blent  with  her  clear,  ringing  laugh, 

•» 

causing  it  fairly  to  swell  out  its  exultation  upon  the  air.  I  sup 
pose  every  one  has  heard  such  laughs ;  but  they  only  come  from 
very  young  hearts,  in  the  first  flush  of  that  wild  joy,  which  time 
must  chasten,  if  it  does  not  wholly  take  away. 

I  found,  a  few  days  since,  some  leaves  from  Katie's  diary,  writ 
ten  in  those  sunny  days,  and  I  will  insert  them  here.  She  was 
not  romantic,  not  at  all ;  but,  with  her  mother  sleeping  beneath 
the  grave-yard  turf,  and  her  only  sister  rather  a  child  than  a 
companion,  she  had  had  few  friends  with  whom  to  share  the 
dreams  and  hopes  which  make  their  phantom  light  and  shade  in 
every  human  heart,  not  quite  of  the  earth,  earthy.  This  was 
why,  since  first  her  childish  fingers  had  learned  to  guide  a  pen, 
Kate  had  written  out  fresh  leaves  from  her  inner  life;  making 
confidential  leagues  with  reams  of  clear,  white  paper,  bound  up 
in  Russia  leather.  Of  those  leaves  I  have  but  few ;  most  were 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  115 

burned,  and  their  ashes  scattered  to  the  winds  of  heaven.  Of 
the  few  that  remain,  the  first  was  written  the  day  after  her 
oetrothal,  and  the  light  of  her  pure  young  love  seems  to  come 
down  through  the  long  lapse  of  years,  and  make  a  halo  round  the 
delicate  characters  of  her  clear  Italian  hand-writing. 

"  May  2nd. 

"  Can  it  be  that  only  one  sun  has  set  and  risen  since  Stanley 
Grayson  called  me  his,  —  since  another  and  a  dearer  life  grew  into 
mine,  with  the  knowledge  that  I  was  beloved  ?  0,  joy  !  great, 
unutterable  joy,  whose  seeds  were  sown  in  grief,  and  watered  by 
the  hot  tears  which  made  the  flowers  grow  upon  my  mother's 
grave  !  Who  shall  say,  if  I  had  not  been  thus  desolate,  I  could 
have  felt  so  deeply  this  wondrous  bliss  of  love  ? 

"  How  strange  it  seemed  last  night,  when  we  were  quietly  at 
home,  after  all  the  excitement  of  the  day,  to  have  him  taking 
care  of  me  so  tenderly !  We  had  had  the  stove  carried  away  at 
house-cleaning  time,  and  the  air  was  cold.  He  saw  I  shivered, 
and  said  I  must  be  wrapped  up ;  but  when  I  would  have  gone 
after  my  shawl,  he  stopped  me,  and  went  himself.  How  care 
fully  he  folded  it  around  me !  and  when  I  placed  my  hands  in  his 
to  thank  him,  he  raised  them  to  his  lips,  but  presently  gathered 
me,  hands,  shawl  and  all,  to  his  heart,  and  sat  down  with  me  in 
his  arms,  at  the  window,  in  the  moonlight. 

"  0,  what  a  long  time  we  sat  there !  I  seemed  to  cling  to 
him,  and  look  up  to  him  so  trustfully,  and  he,  —  0,  I  know  he 
loves  me ! 

"  There  is  no  doubt,  no  distrust.  I  know  he  will  be  mine  only 
till  his  life  shall  end. 


116  KATE  LYNN'S  BKIDAL. 

"  This  morning  I  really  seemed  to  be  growing  pretty,  for  I 
was  so  happy  that  my  face  was  fairly  radiant;  as  I  looked  in  the 
glass,  my  black  eyes  sparkled,  and  I  thought,  as  I  buttoned  my 
simple  gingham  morning-dress,  nothing  else  ever  became  me  so 
finely.  Stanley  must  have  thought  so  too,  for  he  put  his  hand 
upon  my  head,  and,  smoothing  back  my  hair,  whispered,  <  Ah 
Katie,  you  must  n't  grow  handsome  so  fast,  or  I  '11  be  afraid  of 
you,  by  and  by,  my  gypsy  queen.'  I  don't  wonder  he  calls  me 
gypsy ;  for  I  'm  sure  I  look  like  it,  with  my  brown  face  and 
straight  black  hair. 

"  0,  how  often  I  wished  for  Lizzie's  blue  eyes,  and  golden  curls  ! 
but  I  don't  seem  to  mind  them  now ;  for,  brown  and  small  and 
homely  as  I  am,  Stanley  loves  me !  I  declare,  here  I  've  sat 
writing  in  the  sunshine  till  dinner-time.  Betty  never  did  set 
things  right  without  me,  and  I  must  go  help  her.  What  a  sun 
shine  !  I  can't  believe  the  world  was  ever  half  so  bright  be 
fore!" 

"May  9th. 

"A  week  has  passed — a  long,  sunny  week  of  happiness !  Stanley 
says  we  must  be  married  in  September — his  birth-day,  Septem 
ber  fifth.  Papa,  dear,  good  papa,  has  given  me  carte  blanche  as 
to  money.  He  says  I  never  did  cost  him  anything  yet,  and  have 
only  been  a  help  to  him,  all  my  life ;  and  now,  when  he  's  going 
to  lose  me,  he  will  give  me  all  he  can.  Poor  papa !  I  fear, 
though  he  likes  Stanley,  he  is  hardly  reconciled  to  the  idea  of 
my  leaving  home ;  for,  when  he  spoke  of  my  going  away,  the 
tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  so  regretfully  at  his  easy- 
chair,  and  the'  little  ottoman  where  I  always  sit  beside  him  !  It 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  117 

seemed  so  selfish  in  me  to  go  and  leave  him,  —  him  who  has  always 
been  so  kind  to  me,  —  and  for  one,  too,  whom  I  had  never  seen, 
a  few  short  months  ago !  The  tears  came  to  my  eyes,  and  for 
the  moment  I  was  half  resolved  to  send  Stanley  away  without 
me ;  but,  0,  I  know  that  already  my  soul  is  married  to  his  soul, 
and  I  cannot  give  him  up.  Lizzie  will  come  home  in  July,  and 
she  can  stay  with  papa.  Do  I  love  Stanley  better  than  papa  ? 
Why  do  I  not  say  Lizzie  will  do  for  Stanley  ?  And  why  would 
she  not  —  she,  so  good,  so  young,  so  very  beautiful  ? 

"  Down,  selfish  heart  of  mine !  The  truth  must  be  uttered.  I 
find  it  seared  upon  my  soul.  Stanley  is  dearer  to  me  now  than 
all  things  earthly  !  " 

"June  5th. 

"  0,  how  dear,  how  much,  dearer  than  ever,  my  future  hus 
band  is  every  day  becoming  to  my  heart !  How  long  a  time 
since  I  've  written  here  before !  but  then  I  'm  so  busy,  and  so 
happy ! 

"  There  are  such  webs  and  webs  of  cloth  to  be  made  up !  All 
the  forenoon  I  am  cutting  and  planning  things,  and  seeing  to 
Betty ;  a  nd  In  the  afternoon  Stanley  usually  contrives  to  stay 
at  home,  and  read  to  me,  while  I  work.  Why,  I  never  knew 
before  what  a  little  ignoramus  I  am,  until  I  saw  how  much  he 
knew.  But,  then,  I  am  improving ;  I  understand  better  when  he 
reads  to  me,  and  I  seem  to  grow  wiser  under  his  teaching.  He 
says  I  am  gifted  naturally.  I  wonder  if  I  am  !  I  never  thought 
of  it  before.  I  've  always  been  content  to  love  what  was  beau 
tiful  in  others,  without  sounding  the  depths  of  my  own  spirit,  to 
see  whether  pearls  lay  sleeping  beneath  the  waves. 


118  KATE  LYNN'S  BKIDAL. 

"  Dear  me  !  What  am  I  saying  ?  I  wonder  if  Stanley  would  n't 
call  that  a  simile  !  Whoever  thought  cotton  cloth  was  so  pretty 
a  sight  as  it  looks  to  me  now — all  these  sheets  and  towels  spread 
out  so  nicely  on  the  grass  to  dry,  and  all  so  prettily  marked,  too, 
with  my  new  name  that  is  to  be — 'Kate  Grayson  ! '  Stanley 
would  have .  it  so.  He  was  to  mark  them,  because  he  writes  so 
well ;  and  he  went  and  put  that  name  on,  mischievous  fellow  ! 

"  It  does  n't  seem  as  if  I  had  any  right  to  them.  Can  it  be 
that  will  be  my  name,  some  time  ?  I  suppose  so,  and  yet  it  does  n't 
seem  the  least  in  the  world  natural.  I  wonder  if  it 's  wicked  to 
be  glad  Stanley  is  an  orphan  !  I  am  afraid  it  is,  and  yet  I  don't 
know  why  it  should  be ;  for  God  took  his  parents  away,  and  it 
is  n't  wicked  to  say  God's  will  be  done.  It  seems  a  thought  so 
dear,  so  precious,  that  there  is  not  one  heart  on  earth  which  can 
come  between  Stanley's  and  mine  !  —  that  there  is  no  one  else  very 
near  or  dear  to  him,  and  he  can  give  me  all  his  love  ! 

"  Somehow  it  seems  to  blend  a  religious  ecstasy  with  my  happi 
ness.  I  feel  that  I  am  all  he  has,  and  in  my  heart  wells  up  a 
prayer  that  God  will  help  me  to  be  a  good  angel,  guarding  his 
life. 

"  He  called  me  his  guardian  angel,  once.  Somehow  it  made  my 
heart  thrill  so  with  joy,  that  it  choked  me.  I  could  not  bear  it. 
I  bade  him  not  to  call  me  so,  for  I  was  n't  good,  I  was  no  angel ; 
and  he  has  not  said  it  since.  I  have  been  thinking  whether, 
some  time,  when  I  am  his  wife,  —  when  I  strive  earnestly,  as  God 
knows  I  will,  to  make  his  life  bright  and  happy,  —  he  will  not  come 
to  me  in  the  twilight,  and  put  his  arms  about  me,  with  the  tears 
swimming  in  his  eyes,  and  whisper,  '  My  life's  good  angel  —  my 
wife ! ' 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  119 

"  My  wife  !  How  sweet  those  words  will  sound  from  him !  He 
called  me  so  once,  the  other  day  ;  but  it  frightened  me,  it  seemed 
so  unreal,  the  foretaste  of  a  happiness  which,  alas  for  it!  may 
never  come ! 

"  Hush !  I  hear  the  carriage.  That  is  he,  home  again,  so  soon, 
smiling  at  me,  and  sending  me  kisses  through  the  window,  as  he 
unfastens  his  horses.  I  must  hurry  this  out  of  sight,  for  I  would 
not  have  him  know  what  a  silly  child  I  am." 


"  July  llth. 

"  0,  how  it  rains !  —  Such  a  perfect  wail  as  the  wind  makes, 
hurrying  by,  as  if  its  viewless  feet  were  '  swift  to  do  evil ! '  Poor 
Lizzie !  she  is  inside  the  stage,  I  suppose ;  she  will  have  a 
long,  uncomfortable  ride  !  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  my  soul 
seems  to  go  out  toward  her  to-night  more  than  ever.  I  have 
thought  of  Stanley  so  much  lately,  that  I  've  not  had  so  much 
time  to  think  of  my  poor  child,  and  now  my  heart  is  reproach 
ing  me.  Sweet  Lizzie  !  She  and  Stanley  have  never  met.  How 
proud  I  am  of  them  both !  I  am  sure  they  must  be  pleased 
with  each  other.  Stanley  is  in  his  room  now.  I  sent  him  up  to 
put  on  his  black  coat,  and  that  new  vest  in  which  he  looks  so 
well. 

"  Papa  is  asleep  in  his  drowsy-looking  easy-chair  j  Betty  is 
burning  her  face  over  the  kitchen-fire  ;  and  I,  Kate  Lynn,  —  Kate 
Grayson  that  is  to  be,  —  sit  here  writing.  Heigho !  I  wish 
Lizzie  would  come.  Dear  child !  I  had  Betty  make  those  nice 
little  cakes  to-night,  which  she  loves  so  much ;  and  I  put  beside 


120  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

her  plate  the  little  silver  cup  she  used  to  tease  to  drink  out  of. 
Nonsense !  what  a  silly  girl  I  am  !  I  am  forgetting  that  Lizzie 
is  a  miss  of  fifteen  now.  0  dear,  my  child  Lizzie  !  The  stage 
is  so  late  to-night ;  but  is  n't  that  the  horn  ?  " 


"  July  18th. 

"  Yes,  it  was  dear  Lizzie.  Stanley  heard  the  horn  too,  and  hur 
ried  down  stairs.  I  bade  him  go  and  meet  Lizzie ;  for  it  was 
raining,  and  papa  wasn't  half  awake.  I  followed  him  to  the 
door,  and  he  received  Lizzie  in  his  arms.  She  thought  it  was 
papa,  for,  what  with  the  night  and  the  rain,  it  was  quite  dark ; 
and  she  pressed  her  lips  to  his  face  again  and  again.  But  when  he 
brought  her  into  the  pleasant,  brightly-lighted  parlor,  and  set  her 
down,  she  pushed  from  her  white  shoulders  her  heavy  cloak, 
and  glanced  around  ;  that  is,  as  soon  as  she  could,  for  at  first  I  held 
her  to  my  heart  so  closely  she  could  see  nothing.  When  papa 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  welcomed  her,  and  bade  God  bless  her, 
she  glanced  at  his  slippers  and  dressing-gown,  and  then  at  Stan 
ley,  who  was  looking  at  her  with  a  shade  of  amusement  at  her 
perplexity,  and  yet  with  the  most  vivid  admiration  I  ever  saw 
portrayed  on  his  fine  features.  At  last  he  laughed  out,  merrily. 

"  '  I  see,  little  lady  ! '  he  exclaimed,  playfully,  '  you  are  won 
dering  who  I  am,  and  what  earthly  business  I  had  to  be  lifting 
you  from  the  stage,  and  cheating  your  good  father  out  of  so 
many  kisses  that  it  would  be  sheer  robbery,  if  there  weren't 
enough  left  on  those  pouting  little  lips.  Well,  it 's  no  great  loss, 
after  all,  my  blue-eyed  fairy  !  for  I  'm  no  less  a  person  than  your 
brother-in-law  that  is  to  be,  Stanley  Grayson.' 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  121 

"  Lizzie  seemed  quite  shy  of  him  at  first ;  but  they  are  getting 
on  together  nicely  now.  Papa  has  bought  Lizzie  such  a  hand 
some  little  pony,  and  Stanley  is  teaching  her  to  ride.  They  are 
gone  now  for  a  long  ride  over  the  hills.  How  pretty  the  dear 
child  looked,  as  she  cantered  away,  in  her  deep-blue  riding-dress. 
Sweet  Lizzie !  Even  Stanley  says  she  is  the  prettiest  person  he 
ever  saw.  I  wonder  if  it  was  envy  I  felt  when  he  said  that !  I 
guess  not,  for  I  'm  sure  I  want  him  to  love  her ;  but  somehow, 
of  late,  the  old  longing  has  come  back  again,  for  Lizzie's  blue 
eyes  and  golden  curls." 

"  July  25th. 

"  I  am  a  little  lonely,  I  'm  left  so  much  alone  now.  The  long 
rides  over  the  hills  continue,  and  of  course  I  stay  at  home,  for 
there  is  no  horse  for  me  to  ride.  Stanley  comes  and  kisses  me 
just  before  he  goes  off,  and  says,  '  You  are  always  so  busy, 
Katie ! '  but  he  says  nothing  of  late  about  the  reason  I  am  so 
busy  —  nothing  about  our  marriage. 

"  I  mentioned  it  once,  and  he  seemed  hurt  —  almost  angry. 
We  have  no  more  of  those  quiet  little  talks  about  our  future,  when 
I  shall  be  all  his  own.  He  is  good  still,  but  so  different !  The 
other  night,  —  it  was  a  little  thing,  —  but  we  went  to  walk,  and 
neither  Lizzie  nor  I  put  anything  over  us.  The  air  was  colder 
than  we  thought,  and  Stanley  exclaimed,  '  Why,  Kate,  we  must 
not  let  our  little  fairy,  here,  go  without  a  shawl.  She  needs  so 
much  care,  the  baby ! '  And,  springing  lightly  over  the  fence, 
he  ran  back  and  brought  a  shawl  for  Lizzie,  but  none  for  me.  I 
needed  one  as  much  as  she,  but  pride  would  not  let  me  speak  of 
it ;  and  I  would  not  go  back  myself  to  fetch  one,  lest  it  should 
11 


W£ 

Bu 


I 

122  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

look  like  a  reproach  to  him.  The  next  day,  what  with  cold, 
and  stiff-neck,  I  was  punished  for  my  folly  and  my  carelessness. 

"  At  first,  Lizzie  used  to  kiss  me,  and  tell  me  how  pleased  she 
was  that  she  was  going  to  have  such  a  dear,  noble  brother-in- 
law.  But  she  never  mentions  it  now ;  and  I,  too,  have  ceased 
alluding  to  it,  because  it  makes  her  look  pained.  And  yet, 
she  surely  does  n't  dislike  him,  for  she  goes  to  ride  with  him 
every  day,  and  every  day  comes  back  looking  more  sparklingly 
beautiful;  though  somehow  she  seems  growing  thinner  and 
slighter. 

"  It  cannot  be  —  but  no,  I  will  not  even  think  of  it.  Stanley  is 
true  —  true  as  steel ;  and  Lizzie,  sweet  child,  never  thought  of 
love  in  her  life.  God  bless  them !  How  I  love  them  both !  " 


"July  27th. 

"Two  days,  and  I  am  writing  here  again;  but  0,  how 
changed !  I  have  been  struck  by  a  thunderbolt.  I  have  had 
a  struggle,  brief,  but  very  fierce ;  and  it  is  past.  I  was  sailing 
in  a  fair  ship,  upon  calm  waters ;  there  were  only  a  few  clouds 
in  the  sky.  Sunlight  rested  on  the  waves,  and  in  the  distance  I 
could  see  a  floating  pleasure-island,  green  'and  calm,  made 
beautiful  with  tropic  flowers,  where  gorgeous  birds  rested,  and 
sang  love-songs  all  the  day.  Merrily  the  bark  dashed  on 
ward.  Loved  forms  were  by  my  side,  and  one  dearer  than  all 
•as  at  the  helm ;  but  from  the  clear  sky  a  tempest-blast  swept 

ddenly.  It  had  sobbed  no  warning  of  the  doom  it  was 
bringing  us. 

"  There  was  a  moment  of  agony.     Shrieks  and  groans  rose 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  123 

upon  the  air ;  prayers,  and  pleading  wails  of  human  sorrow. 
Kain-clouds  swept  over  us,  big  with  bitter,  bursting  tears ;  and 
then  my  boat  went 'down  ! 

'  In  the  billows'  joyous  dash  of  death  went  down.' 

"  There  was  night,  and  darkness,  and  every  soul  perished  — 
every  soul  but  me.  The  waves  took  from  me  love,  faith,  every 
joy  of  hope  or  memory,  then  dashed  me  upon  the  rocks,  and 
left  me Life  ! 

"  How  I  longed  for  death !  My  soul  beat  its  prison-bars  in 
vain,  but  it  came  not.  I  wonder  I  can  write  my  own  story  so 
calmly.  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  have  no  more  hope,  no  more 
fears,  because  all  the  joy  and  life  have  been  ground  out  of  my 
heart,  and  I  only  stay  now,  —  I  do  not  live  ! 

"Let  me  see.  It  was  night  before  last.  I  wrote  here  until  the 
light  faded,  and  then  I  went  into  the  long  arbor  in  the  garden, 
to  watch  the  sun  go  down.  0,  what  a  beautiful  sight  it  was!  — 
such  clouds  of  rose,  and  gold,  and  crimson,  and  anon  one  of  pure, 
snowy  white,  as  if  an  angel's  wing  had  cleft  the  gorgeous  canopy 
to  pave  the  blue  with  glorious  stars,  those  '  things  which  look 
as  if  they  would  be  suns  but  durst  not.'  I  felt  my  heart  swell 
ing  with  a  quick,  exultant  sense  of  life.  A  dancing  flame 
seemed  to  leap  up  in  it,  as  when  a  candle  flickers  brightly  in  its 
socket,  just  before  it  goes  out.  At  last,  « the  stars,  the  forget- 
me-nots  of  the  angels,'  rose  up,  sweet,  and  pale,  and  silent; 
and,  going  into  the  further  end  of  the  arbor,  apart  from  observa 
tion,  I  threw  myself  down  to  dream.  All  things  seemed  to 
love  me.  The  jasmine  drooped  downward,  and  laid  its  long 
green  fingers  on  my  brow,  softly,  like  the  touch  of  a  mother's 


124  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

hand.  The  air  seemed  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  night-bloom 
ing  flowers ;  and  my  thoughts 

'  Were  such  as  thrill  the  heart,  in  youth's  rich  summer  time 
Of  life,  and  beauty,  and  sweet  hope,  and  passion's  golden  prime.' 

I  heard  horses'  feet  at  last,  and  then  steps  approaching  the 
arbor.  I  was  happy  enough  to  be  playful ;  and  I  said,  '  I  will 
keep  still,  and  let  them  look  for  me.' 

"  But  it  seemed  I  was  not  the  object  of  their  search.  The 
moon  shone  on  them  full  and  bright,  but  I  was  in  the  shadow ; 
and  I  saw  Stanley,  my  Stanley,  take  Lizzie  to  his  heart,  and 
press  his  lips  to  hers.  It  may  have  been  wrong  in  me  to 
remain  concealed ;  but  who  shall  blame  me  ? 

"  More  than  my  life  hung  upon  that  one  moment,  and  I  could 
not  stir !  The  first  words  that  fell  upon  my  car  were  — 

"'Yes,  yes,  Lizzie,  I  know  it  —  I  know  it  is  sin.  But 
I  cannot,  cannot  help  it.  0,  Lizzie,  I  worship  you  so 
madly  ! ' 

"  '  But  Kate,  Stanley  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  Lizzie,  I  know  it ;  I  know  I  am  a  brute ;  I  hate  my 
self:  but  Kate  does  not,  cannot  love  as  we  do.  I  could  bear  it 
for  myself;  but  you,  Lizzie,  to  know  how  you  love  me,  —  to  see 
you  wasting  away,  and  feel  that  I  have  done  it,  —  sweetest, 
dearest,  purest !  By  all  the  saints,  you  must  be  mine ! ' 

'"Can  I?' 

"And  I  could  almost  see  my  sister  tremble  as  she  spoke. 

"  '  0,  Lizzie,  I  do  not  know.  Kate  is  so  good  —  she  might 
release  me ;  but  how  can  I  ask  it  ?  I  remember  how  solemnly 
our  vows  were  plighted  before  God.  Kate  is  all  she  was 


KATE   LYNN'S   BRIDAL.  125 

when  those  vows  were  pledged.  How  dare  I  break  them? 
How  can  I  tell  her  that  I  am  fickle,  and  a  villain  ? ' 

« « Fickle,  Stanley  ? ' 

"  '  Well,  dearest,  not  that  exactly,  for  I  never  loved  Katie 
as  I  love  you;  but  I  have  been  so  hasty,  so  wrong!  Why 
could  I  not  have  waited  till  you  came  home?  Why  was 
I  so  mad  as  to  dream  I  loved  her,  other  than  as  a  brother 
might  ? ' 

'"0,  cruel,  cruel ! '  I  gasped,  in  my  desolate  corner — 'cruel, 
even  to  take  away  the  joy  of  thinking  that  you  once  loved  me ! ' 
And  the  weight  of  woe  swept  over  me  so  wildly,  that,  for  the 
first  time"  in  my  life,  I  fainted.  When  I  recovered,  the  moon 
was  shining  clear  and  full;  she  had  reached  her  zenith.  The 
birds  were  still,  the  bower  was  deserted,  and  over  all  rested  the 
strange  hush  and  silence  of  midnight. 

"  For  a  tune  I  could  remember  nothing.  There  was  a  dull, 
heavy  pain  pressing  intolerably  upon  my  forehead;  but  it 
seemed  as  if  I  had  awoke  after  the  nightmare,  and  was  trem 
bling  to  the  remembered  horrors  of  some  fearful  dream.  Grad 
ually  sense  and  memory  came  back  to  me.  I  rose  and  crept 
toward  the  house,  clinging  for  support,  as  I  passed,  to  the  vines 
and  shrubs  along  my  path.  Very  silently  I  stole  up  stairs, 
and  entered  our  room  —  Lizzie's  and  mine. 

"  She  lay  there  sleeping,  and  I  thought  that  I  had  never  seen 
her  look  so  beautiful.  Her  white  arms  were  tossed  above 
her  head;  her  cheeks  were  fairly  crimson,  and  over  them 
drooped  her  long,  golden  lashes,  heavy  with  round,  sparkling 
tears.  Poor,  innocent,  motherless  little  lamb !  How  my  heart 


126  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

smote  me  as  I  gazed  on  her,  that  I  had  for  one  instant  dreamed 
of  opposing  my  happiness  to  hers !  And  yet  the  struggle  was  a 
fierce  one.  I  knelt  down,  and  drew  Lizzie's  head  to  my  bosom, 
very  gently,  lest  I  should  waken  her.  I  thought  of  all  the  past, 
of  the  promise  I  had  made  to  my  dying  mother ;  and  then  I 
prayed,  still  holding  Lizzie  on  my  breast.  I  never  prayed  so 
before.  It  was  a  prayer  in  my  own  fashion,  but  very  earnest, 
and  I  think  very  effective.  I  seemed  to  come  near  to  a 
Great  Spirit,  and  to  feel  my  heart  kindling  with  the  light  from 
the  divine  eyes  looking  into  it.  I  knelt  there  till  the  moon 
went  out,  and  the  dawn,  in  her  gray  robes,  had  stolen  softly  up 
the  cloud-stairs  of  the  east,  and  quenched,  with  rosy  fingers,  the 
stars  hanging  there,  pale  and  wan,  like  half-exhausted  lamps. 
Then  I  rose,  and,  putting  Lizzie  gently  back  upon  the  pillow,  1 
pressed  one  kiss,  long  and  earnest,  on  her  pure  brow,  and, 
with  trembling  fingers,  arranged  my  somewhat  disordered  hair. 
As  I  stepped  to  the  mirror,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  face  so 
pale,  so  haggard,  that  it  startled  even  myself;  but  I  hurried 
down  into  the  garden,  and  walked  to  and  fro,  till  the  cool,  fresh 
air  of  the  morning  had  somewhat  revived  me. 

"  At  last  I  heard  a  hasty  step,  and  in  an  instant  Stanley  was 
by  my  side.  His  face  bore  the  traces  of  great  care  and  weari 
ness,  and  all  my  love  for  him  rushed  up  to  my  heart  with  ten 
fold  strength.  0,  how  I  pitied  him  —  far,  far  more  than  my 
self!  I  knew  his  proud  heart,  and  his  strong  sense  of  right;  and 
felt  that,  whatsoever  way  he  turned,  there  was  bitter  suffering 
before  him.  With  but  the  one  wish  strong  in  my  heart,  of 
sparing  him  from  pain,  at  whatever  cost  to  myself,  I  spoke 
hurriedly : 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  127 

" '  Stanley,  I  have  been  thinking  that  I  cannot  leave  my 
father.  Will  you  release  me  from  our  engagement?  I  don't 
think  we  are  suited  to  each  other,  and  my  duty  lies  elsewhere.' 

"  He  looked  surprised,  even  pained.  I  could  see,  too,  that  his 
pride  was  wounded ;  and  yet,  spite  of  himself,  an  expression 
of  instant  joy  and  relief  danced  into  his  fine  eyes ;  but  he  merely 
said, 

"  'Ah,  Katie,  you  never  loved  me ! ' 

"  Somehow  I  could  not  bear  that ;  it  overthrew  all  my  resolves 
of  silence  and  caution,  and  I  said,  boldly, 

"  '  I  cannot  tell,  Stanley  —  I  think  I  have  loved  you;  but  it 
may  be  not  as  Lizzie  does.  I  heard  all,  last  night.  I  was  sitting 
in  the  arbor,  and  a  spell  was  on  me  that  I  could  not  stir ;  and, 
Stanley,  Lizzie  is  yours.  Please  don't  thank  me ;  I  could  not 
bear  that  just  yet.  I  do  it,  too,  more  for  Lizzie's  sake  —  the 
poor  child !  Stanley,  you  will  be  my  brother,  and  I  '11  try  and 
be  a  good  sister.  Go  and  tell  Lizzie,  and  make  her  happy,  as 
I  shall  be,  when  I  see  you  both  smile  again.' 

"  Stanley  heard  me  through,  and  then,  kneeling  upon  the  ground 
beside  me,  he  pressed  my  hand  again  and  again  to  his  lips. 

"'0,  Kate,'  he  exclaimed,  'I  ought  not  to  marry  you-— I 
am  not  worthy  of  you.  I  should  feel  as  if  my  wife  were  an 
angel,  rather  than  a  woman.  No  one  else  was  ever  half  so 
good,  Kate ;  and  God  will  make  you  happy !  But,  Kate,  your 
father !  — ' 

"  And  he  rose  and  stood  beside  me. 

" '  I  have  thought  of  that,  Stanley,  and  I  will  speak  to  him. 
I  am  essential  to  his  comfort  now,  and  he  '11  soon  be  glad  that 


128  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL." 

his  little  housekeeper  is  not  going  to  leave  him,  and  that  his 
darling  Lizzie  is  to  be  so  happy ! ' 

"  I  had  said  all  I  could,  and  I  hurried  in.  At  breakfast  we  all 
met  again.  I  saw  Stanley  had  told  Lizzie,  for  she  looked  at 
me  once  or  twice  with  a  glance  of  inexpressible  tenderness,  in 
some  sense  blended  with  compassion ;  but  when  she  turned  her 
blue  eyes  on  Stanley,  her  young  face  was  fairly  radiant  with 
happiness.  I  forced  myself  to  make  the  tea  for  papa,  and  pour 
coffee  for  them,  laughing  and  talking  merrily  the  while,  lest 
their  joy  should  be  clouded;  but  all  the  time  I  could  feel  how 
my  own  heart  was  struggling,  choking,  in  black,  bitter  waves 
of  trouble. 

"  After  breakfast  I  detained  papa,  and  told  him,  very  simply, 
that  Lizzie  and  Stanley  had  concluded  they  could  love  each 
other,  and,  if  he  would  give  them  his  blessing,  they  would  marry, 
and  let  me  stay  at  home  to  care  for  him.  For  a  moment,  he 
looked  at  me  sharply,  as  if  to  read  my  very  heart ;  but  I  would 
not  let  him  see  it.  I  turned  my  eyes  away,  and,  moving 
to  the  flower-stand,  commenced  picking  the  withered  leaves  off 
my  monthly  rose-bush. 

"'Kate,'  said  my  father,  at  length,  speaking  quickly,  'do 
you  like  this  plan  ?  Are  you  quite  in  earnest  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,  sir,  quite,'  I  answered ;  for  I  could  not  have  told  him 
what  was  in  my  heart,  and  I  wished  to  complete  the  arrange 
ment  with  as  few  words  as  possible. 

"  '  I  hope  Stanley  is  n't  giving  you  up  for  Lizzie,  against  your 
will?' 

" '  No,  sir ;  I  proposed  the  measure  first  myself.  I  saw  that 
Lizzie  loved  Stanley,  and  would  not  be  happy  without  him  ;  and  I 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  129 

• 

felt  that  you  needed  me,  dear  father  ;  so  I  asked  Stanley  to  let 
me  stay.  You  won't  send  me  away,  will  you,  dear,  dear  father?  ' 
and,  going  up  to  him,  I  caught  his  good,  honest  hand,  and  raised 
it  to  my  lips. 

"  «  Send  you  away !  no,  indeed !  but  I  don't  understand  it,  at 
all.  You  are  a  good  girl,  Katie,  a  comfort  to  your  old  father, 
and  always  were.  You  may  give  the  children  my  blessing.' 
And  he  put  his  hand  upon  my  head,  and  kissed  me  with  un 
wonted  tenderness,  as  he  left  the  house. 

"  I  found  '  the  children '  in  the  arbor  which  had  witnessed  the 
declaration  of  their  love.  I  gave  them  my  father's  blessing,  and 
Lizzie  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  cried,  '  0,  Kate, 
God  will  bless  you !  no  mother  could  have  loved  me  more ! 
Sister,  dear  sister,  you  have  never  suffered  me  to  be  an  orphan ! ' 

"  The  words  thrilled  me  ;  once  more  they  recalled  my  promise 
to  my  mother.  Had  I  not  kept  it  well  ?  was  I  not  keeping  it,  at 
God  only  knew  what  cost  to  myself?  Stanley  pressed  my  hand 
to  his  lips,  and,  saying  some  pleasant  word,  I  turned  away.  1 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  heard  Stanley  say,  '  You  see,  Lizzie, 
Kate  never  loved  me.  I  believe  she  is  glad  to  be  free  once 
more ;  and  I  —  0,  Lizzie,  my  bride,  my  beautiful !  \ 

"  Beautiful !  yes,  that  was  it ;  Lizzie  was  beautiful !  If  I 
had  been, — but  no  matter.  I  must  n't  write  any  more  now. 
I  have  told  the  events ;  the  feelings  must  not  be  written  here !  " 


"  August  27th. 

"  A  month  has  passed  since  I  wrote  here  last ;  I  hardly  know 
why,  myself.     It  has  been  a  long  summer  month.     Days  are  so 


130  KATE  LYNN'S  BBIDAL. 

long  in  summer,  and  they  have  seemed  like  centuries  of  late. 
What  a  beautiful  day  it  is !  The  sunshine  smiles  so  pleasantly 
on  the  fields,  and  the  bright-winged  birds  sing,  and  the  insects 
hum  lazily,  or  go  to  sleep  upon  the  flowers.  It  seems  to  me  I 
never  saw  such  a  scene  of  calm,  quiet  beauty;  —  as  if  Nature 
had  on  her  holiday  garments,  decked  newly  for  the  sun,  her 
lover. 

"  But  why  do  I  write  of  the  world  around  me,  rather  than  of 
the  world  within  me  ?  of  the  external,  rather  than  the  internal  ? 

"  It  must  be  because  I  have  no  internal  world  now.  It  is  as 
if  a  simoom  had  swept  over  the  fields  of  my  heart,  and  left  them 
barren  and  desolate.  I  hope  for  nothing,  and  I  fear  nothing. 
That  is,  I  hope  for  nothing  but  heaven,  and  I  fear  nothing  but  sin. 
Alas  for  poor,  weak  human  nature,  that  it  cannot  content  itself 
with  these  visions  of  eternal  glory !  It  will  go  pining  for  that  love, 
human  and  earthly,  for  which  I  look  no  more.  I  am  peculkr,  it 
may  be,  but  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to  love  more  than  once. 
The  dreams  I  have  dreamed  I  can  never  dream  over  again,  nor 
do  I  wish  it ;  I  have  locked  them  up,  like  priceless  jewels,  in  the 
casket  of  memory,  and  perhaps,  by  and  by,  long  years  from  now, 
when  I  have  grown  older  and  stronger,  and  these  locks  are  gray, 
I  can  put  them  back  from  my  forehead,  and  be  calm.  Then,  in 
some  twilight  hour  of  those  other  years,  I  can  unlock  this  casket, 
and  look  once  more  on  the  jewels  and  precious  stones  that  were 
twined  round  the  brow  of  my  youth. 

"  Nine  days  more,  and  Lizzie  will  be  a  bride,  a  happy  bride; 
for  how  can  his  wife  be  otherwise  ?  They  wish  me  to  be  brides 
maid,  and  I  have  consented ;  it  will  be  hard,  but  I  would  not 


KATE  LYNN'S  BKIDAL.  131 

that  they  should  know  the  sorrow  in  my  heart ;  I  would  not 
that  word  or  deed  of  mine  should  jar  upon  their  happiness. 

"  Lizzie  is  very  thoughtless,  poor  little  thing !  but  very  good 
and  pure  ;  I  hope  he  will  cherish  her  as  she  deserves.  She  has 
never  been  used  to  care ;  even  the  preparations  for  her  bridal  I 
have  taken  upon  myself.  She  has  ridden  and  walked  with 
Stanley,  and  I  have  sewed  on  sheets  and  pillow-cases,  and  bridal 
robes.  I  was  glad  to  have  it  left  to  me,  for  I  should  have  been 
wretched  had  I  not  been  busy ;  even  as  it  is,  I  fear  I  have 
repined  sometimes,  —  but  it  must  not  be.  Here  they  come,  can 
tering  along ;  Lizzie's  face  is  bright  with  happiness,  and  Stanley  is 
looking  on  her  with —  0  !  such  fond,  husband-like  pride !  1 
will  go  and  meet  them  !  " 


"  September  7th. 

"  Lizzie  is  married,  and  they  have  gone ;  surely  no  bride  ever 
before  looked  se  beautiful !  Her  long  curls  floated  over  her 
white  robe  like  sunshine  over  snow ;  and  her  cheeks  were  fair 
er  than  ever,  shaded  so  faintly  by  her  rich  veil.  She  trembled 
during  the  ceremony,  and  I  could  feel  how  firm  and  strong  was 
the  lover-like  pressure  with  which  Stanley  clasped  her  waist. 
When  we  knelt  in  prayer,  his  arm  was  around  her  still ;  and  I 
seemed  quite  to  forget  my  own  existence,  so  intently  was  I  occu 
pied  in  watching  them,  so  fervent  were  my  prayers  for  their 
happiness.  It  was  the  hardest  when  Stanley  came  back  to  me, 
after  Lizzie  had  said  good-by,  and  he  had  put  her  in  the  car 
riage.  He  took  both  my  hands  in  his,  and,  looking  into  my  eyes 
whispered, 


132  KATE  LYNN'S  BBIDAL. 

"  '  0,  Kate,  I  am  so  happy,  and  you  have  done  it !  God  bless 
you  ! '  And  he  kissed  my  brow,  and  .sprang  into  the  carriage. 

"  0,  how  those  words  seem  to  ring  in  my  ears  yet,  '  You  have 
done  it ! '  Yes,  I  had  done  it !  How  could  I  complain  ?  I  had 
voluntarily  given  him  up  ;  he  was  my  brother  now,  and  I  must 
give  him  only  a  sister's  love !  Well,  it  is  past ;  I  am  glad  it  is 
over.  I  have  no  longer  anything  to  dread ;  I  don't  think  it  is 
best  to  write  of  what  my  feelings  are,  or  my  hopes  might  have 
been ;  I  must  be  so  busy  as  to  give  myself  no  time  to  be  miser 
able." 


A  year  passed,  and  no  more  leaves  were  written  in  Katie's 
diary.  She  seemed  to  feel  it  a  sin  even  to  think  of  bygones, 
much  more  to  write  of  them;  and  her  life  was  made  up  of  the  past, 
—  she  had  no  present  and  no  future.  I  mean  by  this  that  she 
looked  forward  to  nothing  with  hope,  and  the  calm  sea  of 
her  life  was  undisturbed  by  incident  or  passion.  Perhaps  I 
ought  to  except  Lizzie's  visits ;  for  the  young  wife  came  home 
several  times,  and  sometimes  spent  a  week  or  two  at  Vine  Cot 
tage.  Once  or  twice  Stanley  remained  with  her,  but  usually  he 
left  her  there,  and  came  after  her  when  she  was  ready  to  return. 

It  is  very  true  that  lovers,  during  the  season  of  courtship,  for 
the  most  part,  learn  very  little  of  each  other's  real  character. 
Any  one  who  had  known  thoroughly  Stanley  and  Lizzie  Grayson 
would  have  trembled  for  their  chance  of  happiness.  Lizzie  was, 
indeed,  guileless  and  affectionate,  but  her  mind  had  no  great 
depth.  Accustomed,  from  childhood,  to  be  contradicted  in 
nothing,  her  will  was  strong  and  determined,  though  she  was 
guided  almost  entirely  by  impulse,  instead  of  judgment.  Natu- 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  133 

rally  a  lover  of  ease,  her  education,  though  showy,  had  been 
superficial ;  and  she  assumed  the  ties  of  a  wife  without  the  faint 
est  idea  of  discharging  the  duties.  I  said  she  was  naturally  very 
affectionate ;  I  should  have  added,  as  far  as  affection  is  demon 
strable  by  kisses  and  caresses ;  but  her  predominant  feeling  was 
a  strong  under-current  of  selfishness,  which,  though  unseen,  like 
the  corner-stone  of  a  building,  formed  the  real  basis  to  all  her 
actions.  As  a  child,  her  father  and  sister  had  loved  her  too 
fondly,  and  admired  her  too  intensely  ever  to  check  her  in  her 
heedless  pursuit  of  self-gratification.  During  the  period  of  court 
ship  and  betrothal,  Stanley  had  been  so  intoxicated  with  her 
beauty  as  to  make  all  her  whims  his  own ;  and,  during  the  honey 
moon,  though  he  sometimes  differed  with  her  in  opinion,  one  of 
her  brilliant  smiles  would  usually  prove  irresistible,  carry  her 
own  point,  and  convince  her  husband  that  he  was,  or  ought  to  be, 
the  happiest  man  in  the  universe.  But  Stanley's  character, 
though  in  some  respects  the  exact  counterpart  of  his  wife's,  was 
in  others  so  radically  different,  as  to  make  you  wonder  what 
could  possibly  have  been  the  harmonizing  medium  to  have  drawn 
them  together. 

The  truth  was,  Stanley  had  not  thought  of  Lizzie  so  much  as 
his  wife,  —  a  woman,  happy,  indeed,  as  every  true  woman  must 
be  with  the  man  she  loves,  but  yet  tried  ofttimes,  and  coming 
from  the  furnace  with  a  character  beautified  and  made  purer  by 
suffering;  he  had  dreamed  of  her  as  a  beautiful  bride,  a  being 
whom  he  would  be  proud  to  hear  called  by  his  name ;  whom  he 
could  introduce  to  his  friends,  and' then  go  home  claiming  this  peer 
less  object  of  the  world's  admiration  as  his  own.  It  was  his 
mistake  that  he  had  not  looked  further  —  that  the  white  satin  and 
12 


134  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

the  bride  had  come  between  his  vision  and  the  future  years ;  but 
it  was  a  mistake  into  which  half  the  people  in  the  world  have 
fallen,  and  will  continue  to  fall,  until  the  world's  end. 

Stanley  was  an  orphan,  and,  like  his  wife,  had  very  early 
learned  the  omnipotence  of  his  own  will ;  he  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  submit  to  no  one,  and  to  make  few,  if  any,  sacrifices  in 
those  little  things  in  which  sacrifices  are  so  essential  to  the  daily 
comfort  of  life.  He  was  as  thorough  as  Lizzie  was  superficial ; 
he  had  a  mathematical  horror  of  anything  like  carelessness,  or 
want  of  exactness.  The  fondest  dream  of  his  manhood  had  been 
an  intellectual  wife,  one  who  would  be  able  fully  to  share  in 
all  his  refined  pleasures  of  taste  and  intellect. 

And  yet,  during  his  acquaintance  with  Lizzie,  previous  to 
their  marriage,  he  had  never  perceived  her  deficiencies.  She 
was  beautiful ;  she  sung  and  played  enchantingly,  and  talked 
the  prettiest  of  small-talk,  in  the  sweetest  and  most  musical 
accents  imaginable.  He  had  admired,  almost  idolized,  her 
beauty ;  hung  enraptured  over  her  piano ;  and  forgot,  as  men, 
even  the  best  and  most  sensible  of  them,  will  forget  sometimes, 
that  this  was  not  all  of  life. 

Through  the  honey-moon  the  delusion  lasted  very  comfortably. 
It  was  certainly  a  pleasant  thing  to  travel  with  Lizzie ;  to  hear 
her  lively,  musical  exclamations  of  surprise  at  the  panorama  of 
beauty  which  spread  itself  before  them ;  to  have  the  fair  being 
on  his  arm  greeted  with  the  silent  homage  of  earnest  glances, 
and  suspended  breath.  But  it  was  another  thing,  when  they 
were  settled  in  a  house  of  their  own,  and,  too  late,  he  began  to 
discover  his  mistake.  If  he  commenced  to  plead  his  wishes  in 
opposition  to  hers,  Lizzie  would  have  recourse  to  tears  and  hys- 


KATE  LYNN'S  BKIDAL.  135 

terics,  or  overpower  him  with  caresses ;  and  he,  reflecting  how 
she  had  been  indulged  at  home,  would,  for  the  most  part,  submit. 
Sometimes,  when  compliance  seemed  weak,  or  sinful,  to  his  cooler 
judgment,  he  persisted ;  and  then  a  new  phase  in  Lizzie's  charac 
ter  was  revealed.  She  made  her  husband  feel  the  power  of  her 
stinging  sarcasm,  and  her  bitter  reproaches.  Once  she  alluded 
to  his  old  love  for  Kate,  and  taunted  him  with  his  perfidy ;  he 
had  broken  Kate's  heart,  she  said,  by  his  cruelty,  and  now  he 
was  breaking  hers.  Usually  he  had  answered  her — always  gently 
at  first,  but  latterly  in  cold,  stern  words,  sometimes ;  but  this 
time  he  said  nothing,  —  he  looked  at  her !  There  must  have  been 
power  in  his  look,  for  Lizzie  trembled  and  sat  down,  clinging  to 
the  chair  for  support. 

Stanley  was  very  pale,  his  hands  were  firmly  closed,  and  his 
lips  cold  and  white  as  death;  but  he  only  looked  at  her,  and  went 
out.  Lizzie  did  not  see  him  again  till  the  next  morning,  and 
then  there  was  no  allusion  made  to  the  past  by  either.  Her 
conscience  reproached  her  bitterly  for  taunting  him  with  a  wrong 
that  was  done  only  for  her  sake,  and  which  he  might  long  ago 
have  repented  in  sackcloth  and  ashes ;  and  she  was  but  too  glad 
to  leave  the  subject  untouched,  since  he  did  not  allude  to  it. 

Mistaken  course !  how  can  a  wife  ever  let  a  wrong  go  unex 
plained,  unforgiven,  when  the  right  is  hers,  if  she  would  but  use 
it,  to  hang  upon  her  husband's  neck,  and  plead  for  peace  and 
forgiveness,  by  the  holy  memories  of  olden  love ! 

But  Lizzie  said  nothing ;  and  Stanley  Grayson  was  a  man 
who,  unasked,  could  never  forgive  a  wrong, — at  least,  could  never 
forget  one.  The  power  of  Lizzie's  beauty  was  not  all  gone,  and 
very  easily  she  might  have  healed  the  wound ;  but  she  let  it 

• 


136  KATE  LTNN'S  BRIDAL. 

alone  —  let  it  fester  and  corrode  still  deeper,  while  it  was  covered 
by  a  strict  and  almost  forbidding  courtesy  and  attention.  But 
this  wore  off  in  time,  and  there  was  no  outward  difference  in 
Stanley  Grayson's  behavior  to  his  wife  —  at  least,  none  that 
could  be  perceived  by  a  woman  like  Lizzie,  not  exactly  heartless, 
but  frivolous  and  self-loving.  He  had  accompanied  her  on  her 
first  visit  home  after  their  marriage,  but  after  that  he  never  came 
again  to  stay  more  than  a  few  hours.  I  think  Kate  must  have 
suspected  something  of  his  disappointment  in  his  wife;  but  she 
kept  her  own  counsel,  and  said  nothing ;  throwing  still  more  of 
caressing  gentleness  into  her  manner  towards  Lizzie ;  and 
seemed  most  anxiously  trying  to  lighten  her  path  by  a  sister's 
love,  united  to  more  than  a  mother's  care. 

Three  years  after  her  marriage,  Lizzie  Grayson  was  brought 
home,  as  it  then  seemed,  to  die.  She  had  taken  cold  by  going 
to  the  first  party  of  the  season  too  thinly  clad ;  and  yet,  though 
her  husband  saw  her  health  was  failing,  and  remonstrated 
earnestly,  and,  for  him,  tenderly,  she  had  persisted  during  the 
whole  winter  in  an  unprecedented  course  of  gayety. 

She  had  been  home  two  weeks,  and  had  been  rapidly  growing 
worse,  when  one  evening  her  husband  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and 
sat  down  by  the  window,  laying  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  that 
she  might  once  more  gaze  forth  on  the  glory  of  the  April  sunset. 
Kate  sat  beside  her,  holding  her  thin  white  hand ;  and,  as  she 
looked  up  in  her  husband's  face,  and  then  turned  her  eyes  on  her 
sister,  and  her  father,  who  was  in  his  old  seat  by  the  fireplace, 
a  smile  of  content  passed  over  her  face. 

"  I  have  much  to  say  to  you,  dearest  Stanley,"  she  whispered, 
"  and  you  must  let  me  say  it  now.  You  are  so  good  to  me,  you 


KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  137 

and  Kate,  and  yet  I  wonder  you  do  not  hate  me.  I  have  been 
a  sadly  thoughtless,  selfish  child,  and  I  have  pained  you  often ; 
you  forgive  me  all  now,  don't  you  ?  " 

A  fond  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  an  earnest,  tearfully-loving 
glance,  were  Stanley's  sole  reply,  and  she  continued, 

"  I  was  a  child  when  you  married  me,  Stanley, —  a  poor,  weak, 
selfish  child,  not  fit  to  be  a  wife, —  and  I  have  been  a  bad  one.  I 
am  so  weak  I  do  not  know,  but  I  can't  help  thinking,  if  I  were 
to  live  longer,  I  would  do  better ;  I  would  try  harder  to  learn 
my  duty,  and  I  might  make  you  happier,  —  but  I  do  not  know. 
I  have  always  loved  you,  Stanley ;  let  me  tell  you  that,  now  I 
am  dying,  and  you  will  believe  it !  Father,  dear  father,  please 
to  come  here,  and  kiss  me ! " 

Dr.  Lynn  started  quickly,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  his  daugh 
ter's  brow ;  but,  when  he  looked  at  her,  the  tears  gathered  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  turned  away  sorrowful,  for  on  her  face  he  read  that 
fearful  change,  which  no  man  can  describe,  but  which  goeth 
before  death  and  the  grave. 

"Kate — Stanley!"  whispered  the  dying  girl,  very  faintly ; 
and  Stanley,  entirely  overpowered  by  the  violence  of  his  emotion, 
pressed  his  lips  to  Lizzie's,  and  then,  laying  her  in  Kate's  arms, 
knelt  beside  her,  and  murmured  wild  and  strangely  earnest 
words  of  supplication.  When  once  more  he  looked  on  her  who 
had  been  joined  to  him  in  the  strange  and  mystic  tie  of  marriage, 
the  form  was  there,  indeed,  —  the  cold,  still,  beautiful  form,  — 
but  the  light  had  faded  from  the  blue  eyes,  the  hands  hung  cold 
and  powerless  by  her  side !  —  Lizzie  Grayson  was  dead ' 


12* 


138  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

It  7«ras  the  "  leafy  month  of  June,"  and  Kate  Lynn's  twenty- 
fifth  birth-day.  Care  and  sorrow  had  made  her  look  even  older 
than  that.  Her  cheeks  were  hollow,  her  figure  thin,  and  amid 
her  jetty  hair  lay  broad  streaks  of  silver;  and  yet,  Kate  was  as 
attractive  as  at  nineteen,  and,  perhaps,  even  more  interesting.  I 
said  as  attractive ;  for  what  she  had  lost  in  color,  complexion,  and 
symmetry  of  figure,  she  had  more  than  gained  in  the  calm,  sweet 
pensiveness  of  her  fair  face,  and  the  holy,  tender,  but  inexpress 
ibly  beautiful  light  in  her  soft  eyes.  She  had  gone  alone,  at  the 
twilight,  to  the  green  and  mossy  bank  where  she  had  first  plighted 
her  vows  to  Stanley  Grayson.  Sitting  in  the  old  seat,  she  drew 
from  her  pocket  the  miniature  he  had  given  her,  and  gazed  long 
and  fondly  on  the  pictured  features. 

"  It  was  the  one  love  of  life,"  she  murmured,  at  length,  "  the 
love  of  life,  —  and  he  was  false  —  " 

"  No,  no  Kate  !  say  anything  but  that.  Kate,  my  darling,  — 
Kate,  my  worship  !  " 

Kate  raised  her  soft,  beautiful  eyes,  and  there,  on  the  moss 
beside  her,  was  kneeling  Stanley  Grayson.  It  was  the  first  time 
they  had  met  since  the  turf  was  put  over  Lizzie's  grave;  and  a 
choking  tide  of  old-time  memories  swelled  Katie's  heart,  and 
nearly  stifled  her. 

"  Kate,"  he  continued,  speaking  hurriedly,  "  I  did  love  you ; 
as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  Kate,  I  loved  you,  when,  long  years 
ago,  I  knelt  here  by  your  side,  —  and,  Kate,  I  never  loved  an 
other  !  Lizzie  came  home,  and  she  was  beautiful,  —  0,  so 
radiantly  beautiful !  —  the  fairest  shape,  I  thought,  my  eyes  ever 
rested  on ;  we  were  thrown  much  together,  and  she  loved  me,  as 
much  as  she  could  love;  and  I  —  I  became  intoxicated  with 


teSf 

KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL.  139 

her  glorious  beauty.  One  night,  —  one  fatal  night, — we  told 
our  dream,  and  you  heard  us,  Katie.  The  next  morning  you 
gave  me  up,  so  coldly,  so  calmly,  that  I  thought  you  had 
never  loved  me.  I  thought  I  was  happy,  for  Lizzie  seemed 
all  the  fondest  heart  could  ask,  and  the  dream  continued. 
When  the  romance  was  over,  and  I  settled  down  with  her  as 
my  wife,  I  felt  the  wrong  then.  Lizzie  was  a  pet,  a  plaything, 
a  pretty  creature ;  you,  Kate,  the  noble,  unselfish  woman,  for 
whom  I  pined,  who  might  have  been  the  other  half  of  my 
self.  I  came  home  with  Lizzie  once,  and  I  felt  it  more  and 
more.  A  passionate,  wicked  love  for  you  was  growing  up 
in  my  heart ;  or,  rather,  it  was  the  old  love  speaking  out, 
haunting  me,  mocking  me,  confronting  me  defiantly,  now  that  1 
was  the  husband  of  another.  I  left  you,  Kate,  and  I  kept  away 
from  the  charmed  circle  of  your  influence.  True,  you  haunted 
me  everywhere ;  but  I  was  better  away,  and  I  had  one  comfort 
in  the  thought  that  your  heart  was  light,  that  you  had  never 
loved  me.  Lizzie  was  good  and  sweet-tempered,  generally ;  but 
she  did  not  make  me  happy,  for  she  could  not  understand"  me. 
You,  Kate,  suited  me,  to  the  finest  fibre  of  my  being;  it 
seemed  as  if  we  were  made  for  each  other.  At  last,  Lizzie  died. 
0,  how  bitterly  I  reproached  myself,  as  she  lay  dying,  that  I 
had  not  loved  her  better !  how  gladly  I  would  have  laid  down 
my  own  life  that  she  might  go  forth  again,  free  and  happy,  into 
the  beautiful  earth ! — but — she  died.  Something  kept  telling  me 
that  I  had  killed  her;  that,  if  I  had  loved  her  better,  and 
guarded  her  more  tenderly,  she  might  have  been  happier,  —  she 
might  have  lived !  I  felt  as  if  the  brand  of  a  murderer  was 
upon  my  brow ;  I  seemed  to  read  scorn  and  hatred  even  in  your 


140  KATE  LYNN'S  BRIDAL. 

eyes,  and  I  fled.  Time  has,  in  some  sense,  healed  the  wound,  it 
may  be ;  but  it  has  only  brightened  your  memory,  and  I  came 
back  to-night  to  plead  with  you  for  the  old-time  love.  You 
must  hate  me,  Kate;  you  won't  have  me,  I  know  you  won't, — 
but  don't  say  no.  If  I  must  leave  you,  get  up  and  walk  away, 
and  say  nothing;  for  I  can't —  0,  Kate,  I  can't  hear  your  lips 
speak  my  doom  ! " 

But  Kate  did  n't  get  up  and  go  away,  —  I  guess  it 's  not  best 
for  me  to  tell  what  Katie  did ;  but,  sure  I  am,  there  was  a  wed 
ding  in  the  old  country  church  at  Ryefield,  September  5th,  1843 ; 
and  that,  dear  readers,  that  was 

KATE   LYNN'S   BRIDAL. 


EIGHTEEN   TO-DAY, 


MY  birth-day  !  Here  I  go,  drifting  down  the  stream  of  time, 
with  the  wrecks  floating  upon  its  swollen  tide,  and  the  buried 
hopes  sleeping  beneath,  like  entombed  human  creatures,  lifting 
up  their  pale  faces,  and  staring  with  their  ghastly  eyes. 
Here  and  there,  bedded  in  pearls  and  coral,  lie  tufts  of  old-time 
memories  —  the  heart's  forget-me-nots! 

As  I  look  behind  me,  I  see  dim,  shadowy  floating  islands  of 
pleasure,  peopled  with  forms  that  have  made  glorious  my  dreams. 
And  there,  beyond,  rise  cold,  gray  cliffs,  where,  in  unguarded 
hours  of  storm  and  tempest,  I  have  been  transfixed  with  thunder 
bolts,  and  woke  to  life  again  by  the  fierce  cries  of  demons. 

But  a  hand  of  mercy  has  drawn  a  veil  before  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  the  past.  It  is  a  bright,  rosy  veil  of  mist,  and  they 
gleam  faintly  through  it,  like  the  dim,  soft  outlines  of  a  far-off 
picture ;  but  the  joys  make  not  my  heart  beat  quicker,  nor  do 
the  griefs  bring  back  a  pang  of  fear.  My  Father  looks  on  me 
from  heaven,  and  the  past,  with  its  sins  and  errors,  is  a  dead 
body,  a  cold  corpse.  It  cannot  rise  again  to  haunt  me ;  I  am 
strong  now,  and  my  heart  sings,  though  my  tired  feet  bear  me 
onward  as  chief  mourner  at  the  burial  of  days  that  were  ! 


TO  A  PICTURE   OF   KATE 


SOMETIMES  I  dream  of  thee  at  night ; 

Thy  wild  brown  eyes, 

Thy  phantom  eyes, 
Gaze  on  me  with  a  live  delight ; 
And  then  I  feel  my  brow  o'erblown 

"With  tresses  that  must  sure  be  thine. 
In  dreams  I  tremble  to  thy  tone, 

In  dreams  I  dare  to  call  thee  mine ; 
While,  gazing  on  me  all  the  while, 

Those  wild  brown  eyes, 

Those  phantom  eyes, 
O'ersweep  my  spirit  with  a  smile. 

I  know  not  where  thou  hadst  thy  birth ; 
But  sure  it  was  some  country  fair, 
Set  floating  in  the  upper  air, 

Some  region  that  was  not  of  earth  ; 

For  nothing  earthly  ever  shone 

With  half  the  splendor  of  thine  eyes, 

The  pale  moon  treading  on  alone 
(Though  many  an  ocean  silent  lies 

To  gaze  upon  her  calm,  white  face, 
O'erswept  by  waves  of  golden  hair, 
And  tranced  light,  so  heavenly  fair) 

Wears  not  one  half  thy  spirit  grace. 


~v 

TO   A   PICTURE   OF   KATE.  143 


I  think  of  goddesses  divine, 

While  gazing  on  thy  lofty  brow, 
And  can  but  whisper,  soft  and  low, 
'  Sure,  thou  hast  drunk  immortal  wine  !  " 

And  then  I  say  a  legend  o'er 

('T  was  told  at  twilight  by  my  sire, 

As,  with  his  tresses  long  and  hoar, 
He  sat  beside  the  drift-wood  fire) , 

How,  many  a  lonesome  year  ago, 
When  summer's  soft  and  balmy  smile 
Lay  warm  upon  the  ^Dgean  isle, 

The  Grecian  gods  kept  court  below. 

And  when  upon  the  southern  sea 

The  night  came  down  with  shadows  long, 
And  snowy  swans  began  their  song 

Of  sad  and  plained  melody, 

Me  thought  the  gods,  who  there  had  striven 
In  pleasant  pastimes  all  the  day, 

Went  up  on  cloudy  stairs  to  heaven, 
And  left  thee,  wearied  with  thy  play, 

Within  a  southern  grove  of  balm, 
A  sleeping,  with  thy  phantom  eyes 
Half-closed  beneath  the  watching  skies, 

Like  some  fair  statue,  tranced  in  calm  ! 

And,  when  I  dream  of  thee  at  night, 

Thy  wild  brown  eyes, 

Thy  phantom  eyes, 
Oft  wear  a  glory  to  my  sight, 
As  if  but  now  thou  didst  awake 
From  sleeping  by  Thessalian  streams, 


144  TO  A  PICTURE  OF   KATE. 

Where  not  a  breeze  had  dared  to  break 
The  silence  of  thy  charmed  dreams  ; 
And,  gazing  on  me  all  the  while, 

Those  wild  brown  eyes, 

Those  phantom  eyes, 
Thrill  all  my  spirit  to  their  smile ! 


CIS-ATLANTIC    BORIOBOOL A-GHA. 

NEVER  mind  Peepy,  Mrs.  Jellyby !  Let  the  child  cry,  — let 
him  fall  down  stairs,  and  break  his  nose.  What  are  a  thousand 
Peepies  now  present,  to  the  mighty  schemes  of  our  modern 
Borioboola-Gha,  which  will  affect  the  destinies  of  myriads  of 
Peepies  yet  to  come  ?  Can  you  fritter  away  your  attention  on 
one  man,  and  his  little  troop  of  children,  when  that  new  lawgiver 
—  that  Moses  —  that  Stephen  Pearl  Andrews  —  has  told  us, 
woman's  chief  duty  is  to  be  "  true  to  herself,  and  not  true  to  any 
man  "  ?  Thanks,  Mr.  Andrews  !  We,  little  girl  that  we  are, 
did  n't  know  our  duty  before.  We  've  found  out,  now.  Never 
mind  if  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  when  he  whispered,  "  I  can't 
live,  if  you  change !  "  We  know  our  duty  now,  and  it 's  not 
much  matter  what  he  suffers  in  so  good  a  cause. 

And  you,  Mrs.  Jellyby,  —  you,  with  the  exalted  scope  of  your 
intellect,  —  surely,  you  cannot  linger  for  an  instant  over  darning- 
needles  and  pin-cushions ! 

You  must  see  it 's  an  affair  of  small  moment  whether  Peepy's 
stockings  are  darned,  or  Mr.  Jellyby's  coat  out  at  the  elbows, 
compared  with  the  mighty,  the  stupendous  interest  of  persuading 
a  half-million  intelligent  women  to  cut  twelve  inches  from  their 
dresses  at  the  bottom,  and  add  on  a  dickey  and  black  scarf  at 
the  top! 

13. 


146  CIS-ATLANTIC   BORIOBOOLA-GHA. 

Then  you  have  other  incentives  to  exertion,  of,  if  possible,  still 
more  sto-pid  —  I  meant  to  say,  sta-pen-dous  importance. 

0,  will  not  the  ghosts  of  our  grandmothers  come  out  from 
among  the  wraiths  of  spinning-wheels  and  home-made  linen,  and 
smile  their  encouragement  upon  the  marshalled  ranks  of  their 
grand-daughters,  the  brave  defenders  of  Women's  rights? 

Press  on  —  the  time  may  soon  come  when  we,  down-trodden  and 
oppressed,  held  in  the  fearful  thraldom  of  so  many  centuries,  — 
a  slavery  to  which  the  bondage  of  Uncle  Tom  was  as  nothing, 
and  the  iflyriad  links  of  the  Lilliputians  weak  as  a  melted  snow- 
wreath,  —  when  we,  American  women  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
may  go  forth,  leaving  home  and  firesides  in  charge  of  our  worse 
and  weaker  halves,  marshalling  the  bright-eyed  ranks  of  our 
emancipated  women,  carrying  the  election  with  a  rush,  dis 
posing  of  cabinet  appointments  as  freely  as  cast-off  dresses,  and 
going  home,  at  last,  to  make  a  further  display  of  our  magnanimity, 
in  our  utter  disregard  of  such  minor  inconveniences  as  unswept 
rooms,  unkempen  hair,  scalded  children,  muddy  coffee,  and  the 
burnt  sides  of  very  dry  toast. 

O,  let  us  rejoice  in  our  exalted  destiny  —  we,  the  regene 
rators  of  the  world,  the  saviors  of  our  nation  !  Don't  breathe 
it,  for  worlds,  Mrs.  Jellyby ;  but,  if  you  can  stoop  to  be 
guilty  of  such  a  masculine  vice  as  curiosity,  I  '11  tell  you  what 
I  thought,  before  I  was  awakened  to  my  duty,  as  with  the  clang 
of  a  trumpet,  by  the  bold  words  and  high  thoughts  of  Mr.  An 
drews,  Miss  Kelley,  and  other  patriarchs  and  patriar chesses,  who 
lead  the  van  in  our  glorious  battle  for  the  right. 

Don't  whisper  to  them  what  I  say,  please,  dear  Mrs.  Jellyby 


CIS-ATLANTIC   BORIOBOOLA-GHA.  147 

because  you  know  it  might  lose  me  the  ambassador's  appointment 
I  am  so  anxious  to  obtain  under  the  first  female  President ! 

You  know  I  am  reformed  now ;  but  I  did  use  to  think  wom 
an's  noblest  sphere  was  home,  —  her  dearest  right,  the  right-  to 
make  bright  flowers  of  home  and  heart  spring  up  and  blossom  in 
some  dear  one's  path. 

I  used  to  think  it  was  so  blest  a  thing,  that  round  those  whom 
God  has  made  so  sensitive  the  seven-fold  walls  of  home  and  love 
were  hedged,  —  that  the  cold  cares  of  the  outer  world  could  not 
come  nigh  us,  and  we  could  only  catch  such  faint  glimpses  of  out 
door  care  and  turmoil  as  lingered  in  the  shade  on  some  dear 
brow,  which  our  lips  loved  to  kiss  away.  It  seemed  to  fill  our 
heart  with  blessings,  our  eyes  with  thankful  tears,  that  dear 
hands  had  built  this  sanctuary  for  our  tenderer  lives,  and,  amid 
all  the  cares  of  life,  turned  hopeful  back  to  us  for  strength  and 
cheer !  I  must  confess,  too,  that  I  have  not  always  boasted  a 
soul  above  such  light  discomforts  as  burnt  toast  and  muddy 
coffee,  to  say  nothing  of  tearful  faces  and  ragged  coats. 

Nay,  in  our  day-dreams,  we  even  used  to  picture  the  day  when 
we  should  have  a  home ;  we  fancied  the  bright  fire,  the  cosey 
little  table  with  its  hissing  urn,  the  easy-chair,  the  slippers,  and 
the  fond,  fond  welcome  for  one  for  whom  busy,  loving  hands  had 
retouched  all.  There  came  tears  to  our  eyes,  at  that  kiss  upon 
our  brow,  at  that  voice  whispering,  "  It  gives  me  strength  to  toil, 
sweet  wife,  when  I  can  turn  at  night  to  you  and  home  !  "  Pah ! 
the  tears  have  come  back  again  at  the  very  thought,  Mrs.  Jel- 
lyby.  Lend  me  your  handkerchief; — there,  the  dream  is  passed 
now.  Eemember  the  appointment,  and  don't,  for  worlds,  ex- 

ELLEN  LOUISE. 


SPRING-TIME    OF    THE    HEART. 

SOFT  and  warm  on  hedge-rows  and  dingles  sleep  the  shine  and 
shade  of  the  sweet  spring-time. 

Young  flowers  look  up  to  heaven  with  their  wishful,  tear-wet 
blue  eyes;  gay,  laughing  streams  dash  onward,  rippling  and 
dimpling  into  eddies ;  and  over  the  graves  of  long  ago  green 
grass  grows,  and  spring-buds  bloom  and  brighten.  Little  birds 
sing  their  Gloria  Patri,  in  a  pleasant  cadence,  to  the  grand  sym 
phonies  of  the  organ  of  the  air ;  and,  with  the  refrain,  back  to 
our  hearts  steal  low,  pleasant  voices,  from  the  soul's  own  spring 
time, 

The  stream  seems  less  fair  to  our  tear-dimmed  eyes  than  when 
our  little  brown  fingers  were  building  dams  across  it.  The  grass 
sp  nngs  not  bo  greenly  as  when  we  lay  upon  it  in  the  sunshine, 
stringing  garlands  of  dandelions  and  cowslips,  and  holding  yel 
low  butter-cups  under  round,  dimpled  chins,  to  see  if  little  folks 
loved  butter. 

Never  a  cloud  that  flecks  the  sky  seems  half  as  bright  as 
when  the  clearer  vision  of  our  childhood  could  see  the  seraph- 
faces  peering  through. 

Not  an  anthem-note  of  bird  or  breeze  but  is  jarred  by  discords 
in  our  own  heart. 

"We  gaze  forth  into  the  glad  earth,  and  hear  the  delicate  sing- 


SPRING-TIME   OF   THE   HEART.  149 

ing  of  the  spring-birds,  and  catch  the  uncertain  rustling  when 
the  earth  arises  from  her  winter  swouud,  and  blushes  that  the 
eyes  of  moon  and  stars  have  gazed  upon  her  bare,  uncon 
scious  bosom,  and  grown  sick  with  love.  Nature  is  our  mother ; 
mighty,  glorious  shape,  we  welcome  her,  with  her  pale  hair  float 
ing  backward  in  the  gray  of  dawning,  or  the  one  bright  star  of 
eve  resting,  like  the  crown  jewel  in  a  diadem,  upon  her  regal 
brow ;  —  but  we  turn  away,  and  remember  that  white  hats  are 
getting  dear,  and  we  must  hasten  and  buy  our  blue  velvet  man 
tilla,  before  all  that  cheap  piece  is  sold  out,  at  Stewart's.  The 
very  breeze  that  fans  our  flushed  cheeks,  and  sends  the  young 
blood  back  again  heartward  with  a  rejoicing  tide,  reminds  us 
only  of  that  new  style  of  Spanish  fans,  —  very  dear  they  are,  to 
be  sure,  —  and  sets  us  wondering  how  much  pa  did  make  in  his 
last  speculation. 

There  was  only  one  whom  all  these  pomps  and  vanities  had 
never  power  to  change  —  Our  Nettie ! 

But,  then,  Nettie  "  was  only  another  name  for  nature. "  She 
was  a  strangely-sweet  little  thing,  with  her  long  golden  curls, 
and  her  clear,  spiritual  blue  eyes,  —  sweet  and  gentle  as  the  June 
sky  is  bright,  or  the  song  of  the  spring-birds  pleasant. 

Old  people  shook  their  heads  when  they  looked  at  her,  and 
said  she  was  one  of  those  children  whose  names  are  always 
written  on  grave-stones. 

I  believe  that  even  then  Nettie  had  a  kind  of  strange  longing 
for  death  and  heaven ;  for,  sitting  at  my  feet,  one  day,  weaving 
•flowers,  and  raising  her  large,  thoughtful  eyes,  she  whispered, 
"  Nettie  Neil !  will  they  put  it  so  on  my  grave-stone,  Nellie  ?  " 

id  when  I  had  answered,  "  Yes,  darling,"  she  rejoined,  "  Nel- 
13* 


150  SPRING-TIME   OK   THE   HEART. 

lie,  do  you  suppose  Jesus  in  heaven  is  very  big  ?  "  "  Yes,  dar 
ling  :  but  why  ?  "  "  O,  'cause  it  says  he  holds  little  children  on 
his  bosom ;  and  he  's  got  so  many,  he  'd  let  me  fall,  if  he  was  n't 
pretty  big ! "  Then,  pausing  for  a  few  moments,  she  looked  up 
ward  with  a  holy  faith,  at  once  very  strange  and  very  beautiful 
in  one  so  young,  and  whispered,  "  No,  Nellie,  he  will  not  let  me 
fall  —  something  tells  me  so,  in  here,"  and  she  placed  her  baby 
hand  upon  her  baby  heart. 

I  am  not  superstitious !  I  can  look  a  ghost  in  the  face  with 
exemplary  composure ;  I  can  go  down  cellar  dark  nights  without 
a  candle,  and  to  spiritual  knockings  I  have  always  been  enabled 
to  turn  a  deaf  ear ;  but  I  must  acknowledge  I  never  looked  at 
Nettie  Neil  without  a  strange  feeling  that  she  was  linked  in  some 
mysterious  manner  with  the  spirit-world  —  a  vague  expectation 
that  I  should  see  her  melt  away  before  my  eyes ! 

But  mortal  hearts  read  poorly  the  counsels  of  the  All-Glorious. 
Perhaps  it  is  designed  there  should  be  always  some  angels  on 
earth,  guides  to  teach  our  earthlier  natures  the  infinite  glory 
of  our  lost  heritage. 

Nettie  Neil  lived :  she  is  a  wife  now,  —  a  rich  man's  wife,  — 
and  her  small  feet  sink  half  buried  in  gorgeous  velvet  carpets, 
her  fair  form  looks  out  from  massive  mirrors  in  heavy  golden 
frames,  and  her  clear  eyes  grow  dim  with  tears  as  they  rest  on 
the  pictured  spiritual  faces  of  saints  and  madonnas,  or  the  meek, 
faint  smile  which  hovers  round  the  sculptured  lips  of  the  young 
Christ-child,  wrought  out  by  artists  who  have  dreamed  of  heaven. 

But  she  is  very  simple  still,  amid  all  this  grandeur.  The 
harshness  and  worldliness  of  her  husband's  spirit  are  exorcised, 
as  he  gazes  in  the  clear  eyes  of  his  fair  wife ;  and  to  her  p 


THE   CHILD'S   FAITH. 


SPRING-TIME   OF   THE   HEAKT.  151 

soul  there  is  no  winter,  nor  any  gloom,  for  round  her  whole  life 
lingers  the  glorious  sunshine  of  the  spring. 

But  there  are  very  few  such  hearts  on  earth ;  very  few  from 
whom  the  glory  of  the  child-life  passes  not  away ;  very  few 
where  the  cool  pleasantness  of  spring-time  grows  not  hot  and 
sultry  in  the  fierce  breath  of  summer. 

Some  —  alas  for  it !  —  some  there  are,  who  have  no  child- 
life,  nor  any  spring-time  ;  hearts  which  never  leap  to  the  sound 
of  a  kindly  word,  never  hear  the  faintest  whisper  of  that  Great 
Heart  of  God,  where  weary  on^Ptomy  rest !  0,  Heaven  help 
them,  those  weary  ones,  for  whom  earth's  life  and  light  can  never 
dawn  ;  and  Heaven  help  us  to  keep  our  hearts  fresh  and  green, 
that  we  may  not  blush,  as  we  go  forth  in  the  light  and  heavenly 
glory  of  the  spring-time  of  earth,  for  a  wasted  heritage  —  the 
better,  happier  spring-time  of  the  heart ! 


MABEL  MURRAY'S   BALL-DRESS. 


O,  WHAT  a  splendid  establishment  it  was !  Such  gorgeous 
Turkey  carpets  upon  the  floor,  and  such  magnificent  materials 
for  all  kinds  of  garments  d(£  trimmings  as  lay  scattered  upon 
the  velvet  lounges!  There  were  satins  there  which  could  have 
stood  alone ;  gorgeous  moires  wrought  with  bouquets  of  silver 
and  gold ;  black  laces  frosted  with  silver  stars,  and  bunches  of 
French  flowers  flashing  with  jewels.  Well  might  Madame 
Malsherbes'  be  called  the  emporium  of  fashion.  Well  might 
Madame's  taste  be  quoted,  and  her  prices  form  a  nine  days' 
wonder  to  heathens  outside  New  York ! 

Mabel's  eyes  were  dazzled  as  she  entered.  She  handed  Mad 
ame  her  package  of  fleecy-white  illusion,  and  the  pearly  satin 
for  the  under-dress,  with  a  blush  on  her  fair,  soft  cheek,  and 
gave  her  directions  in  a  quiet,  subdued  tone,-  that  contrasted 
very  pleasantly  with  the  French  woman's  eager  volubility. 

"  Here,  Alice,"  said  Madame,  summoning  a  pale,  delicate 
girl  to  her  side.  "  Here,  Alice,  you  have  the  best  taste  of  any 
one  in  the  establishment,  and  I  '11  give  this  into  your  hands.  — 
So  this  is  your  first  ball,"  turning  to  the  Lady  Mabel.  "  Well, 
I  '11  see  to  Alice  myself,  and  I  pledge  you  your  dress  shall  be 
unexceptionable,  if  we  have  to  sit  up  all  night  for  it." 

Mabel  left  the  room,  and  Alice  said,  timidly,  "  Please,  Mad- 


MABEL  MURRAY'S  BALL-DRESS.  153 

ame,  may  I  take  this  dress  home,  and  make  it  ?    My  mother  is 
very  sick,  and  she  has  no  one  to  stay  with  her." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  accommodate  you,  if  I  could,"  -was  the 
reply ;  • "  but  it 's  impossible,  for  this  dress  of  Miss  Murray's 
must  be  finished  and  taken  home  to-morrow  morning,  and  I 
must  arrange  the  trimming  myself.  You  see  how  it  is.  Mabel 
Murray's  father  is  almost  the  richest  man  in  the  city.  Mabel  is 
just  out  of  boarding-school,  and  it  would  never  do  to  disappoint 
them  about  her  first  ball-dress.  Don't  say  any  more,  child. 
I  know  what 's  what,  and,  if  I  could  accommodate  you,  I  would ; 
but  I  can't,  and  that  ends  it." 


It  was  eleven  o'clock  that  night  before  Alice  Griggs  was  per 
mitted  to  go  home,  with  a  parting  injunction  from  Madame  to 
be  back  very  early  in  the  morning,  so  as  to  set  the  trimmings 
on  Miss  Murray's  dress,  and  have  it  ready  to  carry  home  in  the 
forenoon.  It  was  an  hour  after  the  usual  time,  the  next  day, 
when  Alice  entered  the  shop. 

"  Hey,  Alice,  what  now  ?  You  're  behind  time,"  said  Mad 
ame,  sharply. 

"  My  mother  is  dead !  "  was  the  reply,  and  Alice  Griggs  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  Well,  well,  child,  don't  cry.  I  'm  sorry,  but  it  can't  be 
helped.  Just  hurry  on  those  trimmings,  and  take  the  dress 
home ;  and  then,  if  Lady  Mabel  don't  want  it  altered,  you  need 
not  come  back  again  to  day." 

Two  hours  after,  Alice  Griggs  stood  in  the  Lady  Mabel's  ele 
gant  room.  "  Madame  said  I  was  to  help  you  try  the  dress  on, 
Miss,  and  take  it  back  if  it  wanted  altering." 


;, 

154  •     MABEL  MURRAY'S  BALL-DRESS. 

• 
"  Well,"  and  Mabel's  little  fingers  fluttered  like  a  bird,  as  she 

smoothed  down  the-  rich  folds  of  the  satin,  and  arranged 
Madaine's  faultless  trimmings  of  crimson  creeper,  with  its  bright 
green  leaves,  and  long  golden  stamens. 

"  0  no,  it  does  n't  want  any  altering,"  she  said,  in  clear,  joy 
ous  tones ;  "  it  is  exquisite,  perfect !  " 

"  Thank  God !  "  burst  involuntarily  from  the  poor  seamstress' 
lips,  and  Mabel  turned  to  look  at  her.  The  girl's  delicate  limbs 
trembled,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  Mabel  said, 
very  gently,  "  What  is  it,  Alice,  poor  child  ?  Don't  fear  to  tell 
me,  if  I  am  a  stranger.  See,  I  am  a  young  girl  like  yourself — 
I  can  pity  you." 

But  it  was  seme  time  before  she  could  persuade  the  poor  girl 
to  relate  her  sorrowful  history.  Alice  had  left  her  mother  very 
ill  the  day  before.  At  first,  she  had  refused  to  go;  but  her 
mother  had  insisted  on  it,  since  her  engagement  with  Madamo 
was  their  only  dependence.  She  had  vainly  endeavored  to  per 
suade  Madame  to  permit  her  to  return,  but  had  obtained  no 
release  until  eleven.  Climbing  the  tottering  stairs,  with  heart 
that  ached  still  more  wearily  than  her  eyes,  she  had  cried 
"mother,  mother,"  —  "mother,  mother,"  she  had  repeated  on 
entering  the  desolate  room,  and  there,  on  a  heap  of  straw,  lay 
her  mother  —  cold  —  stiff — dead!  "0  God,  God  !"  cried  the 
stricken  girl,  sinking  down  on  Lady  Mabel's  velvet  carpet, 
"  she  died  there  all,  all  alone,  with  not  a  soul  to  smooth  her 
dying  pillow,  or  give  her  a  drop  of  water  in  her  last  agony !  " 

Lady  Mabel  was  just  out,  otherwise  she  would  havo  known 
all  this  was  "nothing  new  under  the  sun;"  otherwise  she 
would  not  have  suffered  it  to  spoil  the  pleasure  of  her  first 


MABEL  MURRAY'S  BALL-DRESS.  155 

ball ;  otherwise  she  would  not  have  taken  the  poor  Alice  to 
share  her  palace-home. 

Alice  Origgs  was  weak-minded,  probably,  else  she  would 
not  have  died  of  grief,  as  she  did,  three  months  after,  ever 
haunted  by  the  terrible  vision  of  her  mother's  last  agony,  which 
no  human  eye  beheld. 

Alas !  alas !  shall  such  things  be  ?  Shall  human  blood  cry 
ever  unappeased  toward  our  Father's  throne  for  vengeance? 
Shall  we  robe  ourselves  "  in  purple  and  fine  linen,"  while  others, 
whose  faces  are  as  fair,  whose  limbs  are  as  delicate,  as  our  own 
must  die  the  slow  death  of  toil  and  exhaustion,  or  live  to  eat  the 
bread  of  shame  ?  Is  there  not  a  day  coming  when  the  dia 
monds  in  our  hair  shall  burn  us  like  coals  of  fire,  when  the 
flowers  on  our  brow  shaL  be  crowns  of  thorns  in  the  great  day 
of  His  wrath 


* 


A  LOVE   SONG. 


WE  met,  it  was  as  barks  that  on  the  tide  of  life 
Go  drifting  onwardly,  by  isles  of  joy,  and  strife ; 
'Twas  but  a  voice  from  sea,  an  answer  from  the  shore, 
One  clasp  of  kindly  hands,  and  the  brief  dream  was  o'er  ! 

I  gazed  up  momently  into  thy  dark-blue  eyes, 

As  one  who  sees  in  sleep  the  far-off  Paradise  ; 

I,  trembling,  bowed  my  head  upon  thy  broad,  calm  breast,  - 

I  wept  a  moment  there,  in  dreams  that  I  was  blest. 

And  yet,  those  eyes  looked  coldly  down  into  my  own, — 
There  was  no  glance  of  love,  no  thrilling  passion-tone  ; 
'T  was  as  a  flower  which  pours  its  worship  on  a  star, 
And  dies,  because  it  wins  no  answer  from  afar ! 

We  met,  and  my  proud  heart  shall  thrill  forevermore 
With  dreams,  and  memories,  aching  at  its  burning  core  ; 
While  joy,  and  hope,  shall  smile  within  thy  calm  blue  eyes, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  pool  where  sparkling  water  lies ! 

1  may  not  speak,  and  so  my  earnest  woman's  heart 
Shall  proudly  guard  the  dreams  that  will  not  hence  depart , 
And  only  in  my  prayers,  with  low,  half-wliispered  tone, 
Thy  name  shall  tremble  up  to  the  Eternal  Throne ! 


THE    FIRST    QUARREL. 


IT  was  the  bridal  morning  of  Effie  St.  Claire,  and  her  mother 
stole  gently  in,  to  breathe  a  blessing  over  her  for  the  last  time, 
in  the  home  of  her  childhood. 

It  seemed  that  her  sleep  had  been  restless,  for  the  bare  arms 
were  tossed  like  a  snow-wreath  above  her  head,  and  her  sunny 
curls  had  floated  out  over  the  velvet  counterpane.  There 
were  tears,  too,  on  the  long  lashes  which  seemed  to  cast  a 
shadow  over  her  rose-hued  cheeks ;  and  yet,  round  her  lips 
was  beaming  a  happy  smile,  and  anon  those  bright  lips  parted, 
and  on  the  morning  air  floated  a  whisper,  "Ernest,  dear 
Ernest ! " 

Long  and  silently  knelt  the  mother  by  her  side,  with  the  hot 
tears  streaming  through  her  clasped  fingers ;  for  the  memories 
of  the  past  were  busy  in  her  soul,  as  she  thought  of  the  untrod 
den  future  of  that  beloved  one,  who  erst  had  lain  beneath  her 
breast. 

"Seventeen  years  have  I  cherished  thee,  my  darling,"  she 
murmured.  "  0,  can  another's  love  ever  be  so  faithful  ?  " 

And  yet  there  rose  a  haunting  shadow  of  self-accusation. 
Had  she  not  guarded  her  loved  one  too  tenderly  from  care  ? 
Had  she  not  suffered  that  proud  will  to  grow  strong,  and  subdue 
others,  when  it  should  have  learned  to  submit  ?  And  now  no 
other  one  could  guard  her  Effie  as  she  had  done ;  and  might 
14 


158  THE  FIRST  QTTABKEL. 

there  not  be  clouds  about  her  future,  which  a  mother's  hand 
had  helped  to  weave  ?  Very  tenderly  she  brushed  back  the 
long,  silken  curls,  and  kissed  the  fair  brow ;  and,  at  that 
gentle  caress,  Effie  St.  Claire  languidly  unclosed  her  large 
blue  eyes. 

"  You  here,  dear  mother,  so  early  ?  "  and  she  pressed  the  fond 
hand  to  her  lips. 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  and  the  mother's  voice  was  very  low  in  its 
earnest  tenderness; — "  yes,  I  came  to  look  on  you,  as  you  slept; 
and,  darling,  your  mother  would  make  one  parting  request : 

"  It  is  this,  dear  one,  that  you  strive  to  yield  to  your  husband, 
and  to  control  your  own  strong  will. 

"  I  have  meant  it  for  the  best ;  but  now,  in  this  parting  hour, 
my  heart  is  heavy  with  a  fear  lest  I  have  made  it  harder  for 
you  to  enter  on  your  new  relations,  by  mistaken  tenderness. 
My  child,  my  Effie,  forgive  your  mother  !  " 

"  0  mother,  dearest  mother  !  "  pleaded  the  young  girl,  "  not 
that  word  from  you  to  me !  Forgive  me,  rather,  for  every 
grief  I  have  ever  caused  you,  and,  believe  me,  I  will  promise  all 
you  wish." 

Two  hours  later,  and  Effie  St.  Claire  was  arrayed  for  her 
bridal.  Her  slight  but  graceful  figure  was  robed  in  a  pearl- 
white  satin,  embroidered  with  threads  of  silver,  and  over  it  fell 
the  rich  folds  of  a  heavily-wrought  point-lace  veil,  fastened  on 
her  graceful  head  with  a  wreath  of  orange-flowers,  knotted  with 
a  string  of  large  seed-pearls. 

Very  proud  was  the  look  of  Ernest  Ethrington,  as  he  came  to 
her  side  on  his  bridal  morning. 

"  Fairer  than  ever,  my  beautiful ! "  he  whispered,  as  he  led  her 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL.  159 

to  the  parlor,  and,  bending  down,  gazed  lovingly  into  her  clear 
blue  eyes. 

And  there,  in  the  sunny  flush  of  the  June  morning,  amid  the 
fragrance  of  sweet  flowers  and  the  hum  of  bright-winged  birds, 
Eflie  St.  Claire  became  Effie  Ethrington. 

Let  us  look  at  her  again,  sis  months  later. 

In  an  elegantly-arranged  breakfast-parlor  was  sitting  a  grace 
ful  and  charming  woman.  Her  hair  was  put  back  with  a  pearl 
comb,  and  round  her  lingered  the  cool  beauty  of  a  Grecian 
statue,  as  she  sat  there  in  her  dress  of  snowy  muslin. 

On  the  table  was  a  magnificent  breakfast-service  of  Dresden 
china,  with  coffee-urn,  salver  and  cream-jug,  all  of  massive 
silver.  You  could  recognize  our  Effie  in  the  lady,  notwithstand 
ing  that  on  her  brow  sat  an  expression  of  haughty  pride,  and 
the  full,  red  lip  was  curled  almost  with  an  air  of  defiance. 
And  yet,  surely,  one  could  not  have  wished  a  nobler-looking 
companion  than  the  gentleman  sitting  opposite,  with  his  kind, 
serious  eyes  fixed  earnestly  upon  her.  Surely  no  fault  could 
have  been  found  with  the  fragrant  Mocha,  or  the  snow-white 
roll ;  and  yet  she  pushed  both  from  her,  as  she  spoke,  seem 
ingly  in  answer  to  a  remonstrance  from  her  husband. 

"  I  tell  you,  Ernest,  I  never  was  crossed  at  home,  and  now 
you  would  tyrannize  over  me  in  this  fashion ;  as  if  I  did  not 
know  enough  to  take  care  of  myself !  I  must  n't  associate  with 
Frank  Hudson,  forsooth  !  —  a  vile  fellow,  you  say.  Why,  there 's 
not  a  woman  in  town  but  would  triumph  in  a  smile  from  him, 
and  you  say  I  shan't  associate  with  him.  It 's  easy  to  see  why ; 
and,  indeed,  you  may  well  be  jealous  of  those  glorious  black  eyes, 
and  that  fascinating  manner." 


160  THE   FIRST  QUAKREL. 

"  Effie,"  —  and  the  husband's  mien  grew  stern  and  altered,  — 
"  Effie,  I  am  not  jealous,  and  I  had  not  even  thought  of  my 
wife  stooping  to  give  me  cause ;  but  I  have  opportunities  for 
knowing  Frank  Hudson  that  you  cannot  have,  and,  since  you 
do  not  heed  my  request,  I  must  command  that  you  shun  his 
society." 

So  saying,  Ernest  Ethrington  left  his  palace-home,  and  went 
to  his  office  on  Chestnut-street. 

Long  Effie  sat  there,  weeping  bitterly.  It  was  their  first 
quarrel,  and  she  knew  it  was  her  fault.  Her  mother's  words 
came  back  to  her,  and  she  almost  resolved  to  beg  his  forgive 
ness  ;  but  her  heart  was  very  proud,  and  three  days  passed  with 
out  the  exchange  of  one  word  of  conciliation  and  repentant 
tenderness. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  Mr.  Ethrington  returned 
home,  and,  seating  himself  on  a  low  stool,  with  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands,  seemed  absorbed  in  a  painful  revery. 

He  was  aroused  by  a  stifled  sob  ;  and  Effie,  his  Effie,  his  wife, 
was  kneeling  at  his  feet. 

"  0,  husband  !  "  murmured  she,  "  I  have  done  wrong,  —  for 
give  me,  hold  me  to  your  heart  once  more,  and  I  will  do  all 
you  ask ! " 

"  Nay,  Effie,  my  beautiful,  forgive  me.  I  have  been  cold  and 
stern,  I  fear,  forgetting  what  a  flower-wreathed  cage  had  held 
my  birdie,  ere  she  nestled  in  my  bosom.  "We  '11  learn  a  lesson, 
both  of  us,  darling.  But,  look  here  ; "  and,  opening  the  evening 
paper,  he  pointed  to  the  name  of  Frank  Hudson  as  arrested  for 
forgery. 

Effie  shuddered,  as  she  clung  closer  to  her  husband,  and  wept 


THE   FIRST   QUARREL.  161 

upon  his  bosom  bitter  tears  of  repentance  for  their  first  and  last 
quarrel. 

The  proud  will  was  subdued ;  the  warm,  loving  heart  of  the 
true  woman  was  awakened,  and  the  life-woof  of  Effie  Ethrington 
was  braided  up  with  golden  threads. 
14* 


TO   A  PICTURE   OF   NATALIE 

"  Her  eyes  were  homes  of  silent  prayer." 

PICTURED  saint,  in  whose  deep  eyes 
Many  a  psalm  and  prayer  there  lies, 
Set  like  stars  in  twilight  skies  — 

Underneath  thy  banded  hair 
Lies  a  brow  so  pale  and  fair, 
Angels  leave  their  kisses  there. 

Pressing  on  thy  dimpled  cheek, 
With  her  lips  so  pure  and  meek, 
Doth  the  Virgin  mother  speak 

All  her  love  for  thee,  her  child,  — 
Holy,  sainted,  undefiled, — 
Heart  by  earth-care  ne'er  beguiled. 

What  clime  soe'er  calls  thee  its  own, 

Sunny  south  or  frozen  zone, 

If  heaven  hath  angels,  thou  art  one  !  — 

Coming  in  thy  mortal  guise, 
From  thy  distant  Paradise, 
Lest  thy  glory  blind  our  eyes  ! 


SILENCE    ADAMS. 

AN   OLD   MAN'S    STORY. 
"  Vergiss  die  treuen  todten  nicht." 

DROP,  drop,  drop,  —  how  wearily  the  rain  falls !  What  spec 
tres  are  gliding  downward  from  the  weird,  dream-haunted  past,  — 
the  land  whose  phantom  memory-bells  are  only  rung  by  goblins, 
whose  fateful  halls  are  brooded  over  by  midnight  and  solemn 
silence  !  What  shapes  of  glorious  beauty  flit  through  its  shad 
owy  aisles !  what  calm,  pale  brows,  what  smiles  bright  with 
the  prisoned  sunshine  of  a  lifetime  ! 

I  am  an  old  man  now.  The  hair  she  used  to  twine  lies  above 
my  furrowed  brow,  like  silver-tinted  moonbeams ;  my  form  is 
thin  and  bowed,  and  these  strong  arms,  with  which  I  used  to  fold 
her,  are  weak  and  shrivelled ;  but  the  fire  burns  on  in  my  heart, 
—  low  down  there  it  glows  and  sparkles,  unquenched,  eating 
away  life. 

I  suppose  the  world  would  call  me  romantic,  if  they  could 
read  the  old  man's  heart,  and  know  that  her  soul  keeps  tryst 
with  mine  at  twilight ;  and  that  still,  with  the  chill  in  my  bones, 
and  the  frost  on  my  hair,  my  heart  thrills,  and  my  pulses  quicken, 
when  I  say  over,  low  to  myself,  the  name  of  Silence  Adams. 

It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  heard  any  other  speak  that 
name ;  a  long  time,  and  the  dust  has  settled  on  her  fair,  sweet 


104  SILENCE   ADAMS. 

face.  I  saw  it  the  other  day,  when  I  went  alone  into  the  pic 
ture-gallery,  and  drew  away  the  curtain  from  before  a  veiled 
picture,  and  looked  once  more  on  that  brow,  with  the  clear, 
brown  eyes  below,  and  the  smoothly-parted  brown  hair  above. 

I  turned  away  sorrowful,  for  there  is  a  great  gulf  between  us 
now  ;  not  death  only,  but  time  and  change.  I  am  an  old  man 
now ;  and  she,  my  one  love,  went  to  sleep  beneath  the  roses,  with 
the  sunshine  of  youth  bright  and  warm  upon  her  brow. 

I  don't  know  where  it  was  I  first  saw  Silence  Adams.  Her 
memory  is  linked  with  my  infancy,  and  yet  I  was  by  many 
years  the  oldest.  But  I  think  some  angel  figure,  some  guardian 
face,  with  pure,  pale  brow,  and  clustering  curls, — her  curls, — 
must  have  guarded  my  infancy,  and,  as  I  grew  toward  boyhood, 
this  angel  came  on  earth,  came  among  mortals,  and  they  called 
her  Silence  Adams. 

No  other  name  could  have  been  so  appropriate,  she  was  so  shy, 
so  pale,  so  spiritual.  There  seemed  a  hush  and  stillness  to  brood 
all  about  her.  Her  home,  even,  was  quiet  as  the  Ghost's  Walk, 
at  Dedlock  Hall.  It  was  a  calm,  fair  spot,  —  one  of  those 
old  family  mansions,  which  look  as  if  they  had  stood  still  for 
centuries.  The  trees  were  all  large,  and  gnarled,  and  heavy, 
and  very  old. 

The  grass  was  green  and  soft  as  a  carpet  for  the  fairies,  and 
the  house  looked  like  a  fancy  some  poet-painter  had  woven  out 
of  the  clouds  at  twilight.  The  Gothic  windows  were  quaintly 
set  in  their  deep  embrasures ;  the  clapboards  were  gray  with 
moss,  or  green  with  ivy ;  the  roofs  and  gables  were  high  and 
steep  ;  and  over  all  a  tall,  straight  chimney  towered  up,  steeple 


SILENCE  ADAMS.  165 

like,  and  now  and  then,  when  the  sunbeams  crossed  it,  seemed  to 
nod  and  look  down  frowningly. 

Inside,  the  mansion  was  even  more  appropriate,  in  seeming,  for 
the  name  and  character  of  its  goddess.  The  furniture  was  all 
quaint  and  old,  but  in  the  most  careful  state  of  preservation. 
The  carpets  were  of  dark,  rich  colors,  over  which  the  sunshine 
fell,  through  the  latticed  windows,  with  a  tempered  radiance. 
The  chairs  were  of  solid  mahogany,  with  the  fantastically -wrought 
cushions  of  our  grandmothers'  days. 

The  tables  loomed  up,  in  a  kind  of  polished  grandeur,  so  dark, 
and  smooth,  and  glossy,  as  readily  to  inspire  a  child  with  a  kind 
of  "you  must  not  touch  it"  feeling;  and  even  the  Canary  in  its 
gilded  cage  was  a  civil,  well-behaved  Canary,  and  never  sang 
when  there  were  visitors. 

I  can  well  remember  the  kind  of  awe  with  which  I  used  to  be 
inspired,  as  I  stole,  with  noiseless  footfall,  into  the  halls  of  Oak- 
wood,  in  my  early  boyhood,  —  the  broad,  spacious  drawing-room, 
the  curiously-carved  furniture,  and,  more  than  all,  the  two  old 
people  who  sat  on  either  side  of  the  broad  chimney-piece. 

I  hardly  think  I  ever  imagined  that  they  were  not  as  much 
part  and  parcel  of  the  furniture  at  Oakwood  Hall  as  the  chairs 
and  tables.  Indeed,  I  am  impressed  with  a  conviction  that  an 
order  to  the  upholsterer,  had  I  been  reproducing  Oakwood, 
would  have  commenced  much  in  this  wise  : 

"Please  send  me  two  very  nice  old  people,  with  corresponding 
arm-chairs.  Let  the  lady  be  fair  and  neat,  with  a  black  silk 
gown,  and  smooth  muslin  neckerchief.  Let  the  crown  of  her 
cap  be  high  and  stiff,  and  the  silver  hair  be  smooth  upon  her 
forehead. 


166  SILENCE   ADAMS. 

"  Let  the  old  gentleman's  wig  be  nicely  powdered,  make  his 
knee-buckles  the  brightest  in  the  world,  and  place  beside  him  an 
ivory-headed  cane." 

Such  was  the  home  where  Silence  Adams  lived  with  her  grand 
parents, —  at  least,  such  it  rises  to  my  memory's  eye.  I  cannot 
remember  when  I  commenced  to  love  her ;  only,  as  I  have  said, 
she,  or  one  like  her,  watched  over  me  in  infancy,  and  I  think  the 
love  must  have  been  born  with  me. 

I  used  to  go  stealing  into  Oakwood  every  night  at  sunset,  to 
make  my  best  bow  to  the  old  people,  and  then  seek  Silence  in  her 
favorite  retreat,  the  garden.  This  latter  place  partook  strongly 
of  the  general  character  of  the  estate.  The  trees  were  as  still, 
and  proper,  and  sober,  as  old  people  at  church-time.  The  very 
flowers  seemed  to  have  been  selected  with  an  eye  to  good  be 
havior.  There  were  the  sedate  and  matronly  sun-flowers;  good 
old-fashioned  four-o'clocks,  regular  in  their  hours  as  an  old-maid's 
tea-drinking;  quiet  lilies  of  the  valley,  mignonette,  and  large, 
bright-eyed  English  violets.  There  were  no  flaunting  dahlias,  no 
gaudy  tulips,  in  Oakwood  garden. 

The  flowers  were  all  in  the  highest  degree  respectable ;  and,  if 
they  had  been  going  to  have  a  dance,  it  would  have  been  the 
stately  minuet  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  not  by  any  possibility  the 
detestable  polka  and  Schottishe,  that  so  vulgarize  our  modern 
drawing-rooms. 

In  the  midst  of  this  garden  was  a  kind  of  summer-house,  em 
bowered  with  roses.  Here  Silence  was  wont  to  spend  the  long, 
warm  summer.  Here  she  lived  and  dreamed.  On  the  little 
rustic  table  lay  her  guitar,  her  work-box,  and  a  few  books  I  had 
given  her. 


SILENCE   ADAMS.  1G7 

Hither  it  was  that  I  bent  my  steps  one  summer  evening,  when 
Silence  Adams  had  grown  up,  from  a  child,  into  a  calm,  quiet, 
beautiful  maiden  of  fifteen.  I  seemed,  however,  to  look  upon 
her  as  a  child  still,  for  I  was  six  years  her  senior ;  and  yet,  I  re 
member,  my  heart  fluttered  a  little,  as  I  caught  the  gleam  of  her 
white  robe  floating  out  of  the  little  summer-house. 

I  went  in  and  sat  down  by  her  side,  lightly  running  my  fingers 
over  her  guitar. 

I  had  just  graduated  from  college,  and  was  soon  to  leave  for  a 
tour  on  the  continent.  I  had  brought  Silence  a  little  ring,  and 
a  golden  cross,  to  wear  for  my  sake  when  I  was  far  away,  and  I 
had  come  to  give  them  to  her. 

I  entered  very  quietly,  so  quietly  that  Silence  did  not  look  up. 
Her  small  white  hands  were  clasped  over  her  pure  face,  and 
through  them  tears  were  trickling,  one  by  one.  I  went  up  to  her, 
and,  putting  my  arm  about  her  waist,  whispered,  "  Silence  — 
dear  little  Silence !  " 

Something  in  my  manner,  perhaps  my  ad^essing  her  as  the 
little  child  I  had  always  considered  her,  reassured  the  weeping 
girl ;  and  when  I  took  her  hands  from  her  face,  she  looked  up,  and 
the  calm,  truthful  eyes  beamed  on  me,  through  their  tears,  with 
an  expression  I  shall  never  forget,  until  the  grass  grows  green 
above  my  heart. 

'That  moment  I  learned,  for  the  first  time,  that  I  loved  Silence 
Adams,  as  a  man  should  love  the  elect  woman,  whom  he  chooses, 
from  among  all  others,  to  walk  with  him  through  life,  till  death. 
Man  as  I  believed  myself  to  be,  I  know  my  voice  trembled 
when  I  asked,  "  Do  you  love  me,  Silence  ?  " 


168  SILENCE   ADAMS. 

"  Yes,  William,"  was  the  calm,  innocent  reply ;  "  I  have  loved 
you  this  long  while,  longer  than  I  can  remember  ! " 

Had  she,  too,  that  strange  feeling,  I  asked  myself,  as  if  our 
love  was  born  with  her,  and  then  I  said, 

"  But,  Silence,  you  love  others,  —  Mary  Lewis ;  your  grand 
parents.  Do  you  love  me  more  than  them  ?  " 

An  expression  of  half  perplexity  crossed  her  truthful  features, 
and  for  a  moment  she  seemed  rapt  in  communion  with  her  own 
heart.  Then  she  placed  her  hand  in  mine,  and  said,  still  very 
calmly,  • 

"  Yes,  William,  I  am  sure  I  love  you  more  than  all  of  them,  — 
more  even  than  my  dead  mother  in  heaven,  I  love  you." 

Surely  those  three  words,  "  I  love  you,"  never  before  con 
veyed  to  human  heart  such  an  undoubted  assurance  of  happiness ; 
but  she  was  calm,  and  I  restrained  myself  still,  while  I  asked, 
once  more, 

"  But,  Silence,  do  you  understand  me  ?  It  is  as  a  wife  I  love 
you.  Are  you  willing  to  give  up  all  others,  and  be  mine  only  — 
to  live  for  me,  as  I  will  live  for  you  ? " 

I  dare  not  write  the  dear  girl's  answer.  I  dare  not  even  say 
it  over  to  myself,  after  all  this  lapse  of  years. 

I  held  her  there,  with  her  brown  head  lying  upon  my  breast, 
till  the  moon  and  stars  rose  up  and  smiled  on  our  betroth 
al.  Then  I  placed  upon  her  little  finger  the  ring  I  had 
brought,  hung  the  golden  cross  about  her  neck,  and  walked  slowly 
homeward. 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  describe  the  heaven  of  joy  and 
peace  which  permeated  my  soul.  Another  life  had  grown  into 
mine.  God  had  sent  me  an  angel,  to  walk  over  these  trouble- 


SILENCE  ADAMS.  169 

some  life-paths,  hand-in-hand  with  me,  to  heaven  !  0,  how  fer 
vent  was  my  prayer  of  thanksgiving,  as  I  knelt  at  my  window, 
with  the  rich,  silvery  moonlight  falling  over  me  like  a  blessing ! 
When  I  woke  in  the  morning,  my  great  joy  at  first  seemed  dim 
and  indistinct,  and  then  the  full  realization  of  it  broke  over  me 
as  gloriously  as  the  sunshine  over  earth. 

There  was  but  one  thought  to  dim  its  brightness.  Silence 
could  not  go  with  me  to  Europe.  She  could  not  leave  her  aged 
grandparents,  and  I  must  go  alone,  and  claim  her  upon  my  re 
turn. 

I  hurried  over  to  Oakwood  early  in  the  morning,  just  to  tell 
my  fair  betrothed  the  good  news,  that,  by  taking  a  horseback  ride 
of  twenty  miles  to  New  York  that  day,  in  order  to  secure  my 
passage,  I  could  remain  at  home  for  a  fortnight  longer.  Two 
weeks,  or  "  fourteen  days,"  as  Silence  chose  to  call  it.  They 
seemed  a  little  eternity  of  joy  to  both  of  us,  and  my  heart  was 
very  light  when  I  kissed  Silence  a  cheerful  good-by,  telling  her 
I  should  probably  remain  in  New  York  that  night,  and  she  would 
see  me  again  the  next  morning. 

All  that  day  my  spirits  were  at  high  tide.  I  transacted  my 
business,  chatted  gayly  with  my  friends,  and  a  little  before  night, 
tired  as  I  was,  I  started  to  ride  homeward,  for  I  longed  to  look 
into  my  darling's  brown  eyes ;  and  I  thought  to  her  the  surprise 
could  not  fail  to  be  a  pleasant  one. 

On  I  dashed,  over  bushes,  stones,  and  hills;  but  the  path 
seemed  all  flowers  to  me.  I  reached  home  just  ufter  moonrise, 
and,  giving  my  horse  to  a  servant,  started  myself  for  Oakwood, 
forgetting,  in  my  lover-like  impetuosity,  that  I  had  need  of  food 
or  rest. 

15 


170  SILENCE   ADAMS. 

I  had  nearly  reached  the  little  bower  which  had,  the  night  be 
fore,  witnessed  our  solemn  troth-plight,  when  the  thought  struck 
me  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  go  on  the  other  side,  where  the 
boughs  were  thick,  and  take  a  peep  at  my  darling's  sweet  face 
before  letting  her  know  I  was  there.  It  was  a  lover's  fancy ;  I 
thought  I  could  tell  if  she  were  thinking  of  me,  and  whether  she 
was  sad  or  happy. 

Quietly  I  stole  round  the  other  side  of  the  bower,  and,  cau 
tiously  pulling  aside  the  grape-leaves,  looked  in  !  *  *  *  * 

The  blood  freezes  in  my  veins,  even  now,  at  the  remembered 
horror  of  that  moment.  I  recall  everything  distinctly ;  through 
years  of  agony,  there  was  not  an  instant  in  which  I  could  forget. 

Silence  was  there,  lovely,  beautiful  as  ever,  and  by  her  side  a 
man  young  and  handsome,  with  raven  curls,  and  large,  laughing 
black  eyes.  He  was  in  the  undress  of  a  military  officer,  and  the 
sword  he  had  unbuckled  from  his  side  lav  on  the  grass  beside 
him- 

His  arms  clasped  my  Silence,  her  head  lay  quietly  upon  his 
breast,  and,  as  he  pressed  his  lips  to  her  brow,  I  —  yes,  I,  her 
betrothed  lover !  —  heard  her  murmur, 

"  I  had  not  thought  to  see  you  again  so  soon,  Henri,  dearest. 
O,  to  see  you  and  be  so  happy  !  Thank  God  !  " 

How  could  she,  false  and  perjured  as  she  was,  dare  to  take 
God's  name  upon  her  lips,  I  asked  myself,  as  I  turned  away,  shud 
dering.  How  I  got  home  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  have  a  confused 
recollection  of  biting  my  lips  till  they  frothed  with  blood,  and 
tearing  out  great  locks  of  hair  in  my  solitary  walk,  to  and  fro, 
through  the  house,  that  mad,  weary  night  of  agony. 

I  was  calm  enough  in  the  morning,  I  remember.     I  arranged 


SILENCE   ADAMS.  171 

iny  toilet  with  the  nicest  care,  and  remarked,  very  carelessly, 
when  I  met  the  family  at  breakfast,  that  I  had  concluded  to  go 
from  home  to-day,  after  all,  since  I  thought  it  would  look  better 
to  see  a  little  more  of  my  own  country  before  crossing  the  seas. 
My  father,  devoted  to  his  chocolate  and  his  newspaper,  scarcely 
heeded  me  at  all ;  and  my  step-mother,  whatever  she  may  have 
thought,  said  nothing. 

After  breakfast  was  over,  I  went  to  my  room,  and  wrote  a 
note  to  Silence.  I  remember  every  word  of  that  cruel  mis 
sive,  as  distinctly  as  if  I  had  penned  it  but  yesterday.  It  ran 
thus  : 

"  Miss  ADAMS  :  Perhaps  it  may  give  you  some  satisfaction 
to  learn  that,  in  compliment  to  you,  I  returned  from  New  York 
last  night,  instead  of  this  morning,  as  I  at  first  intended.  I  went 
over  to  Oakwood,  and,  in  the  natural  indulgence  of  a  lover's 
curiosity,  was  a  witness  of  the  pleasant  scene  in  your  favorite 
bower.  I  presume  it  will  be  an  occasion  of  heartfelt  rejoicing 
to  you  to  know  that  you  are  quite  free  from  all  the  ties  which 
have  bound  you  to  Your  humble  servant, 

"  WILLIAM  CARLTON." 

In  an  hour  my  messenger  returned,  bringing  with  him  a  note 
from  Silence.  0,  what  a  pretty,  graceful  little  note  it  was ! 
Such  a  dainty  envelope,  and  such  an  exquisite  little  hand!  Des 
pising  Silence  in  my  heart,  as  I  surely  did,  the  note  yet  seemed 
dear  to  me,  in  a  certain  sense,  for  it  was  the  first  one  from  her 
whom  I  had  hoped  to  call  my  wife ;  and  I  could  not  make  up 
v\j  mind  to  return  it,  so  I  tossed  it,  unopened,  in  the  bottom  of 


172  SILENCE   ADAMS. 

my  trunk,  and  left  the  town,  without  even  a  parting  glance  at 
Oakwood. 


Crossing  the  ocean  was  not  then,  by  any  means,  the  easy, 
hasty  thing  it  is  now.  It  was  like  making  a  long  and  pleasant 
visit  at  a  friend's  house. 

I  had  plenty  of  leisure,  while  at  sea,  to  think  of  Silence 
Adams ;  but  I  was  proud,  and  not  even  to  myself  would  I  ac 
knowledge  my  disappointment. 

But  still  I  must  confess  there  was  a  voice  low  down  in  my 
heart  which  kept  saying  her  name  over  and  over ;  and  very  often 
her  calm,  fair  face  would  come  between  me  and  the  blue  eyes  of 
Carrie  Stanley,  a  sweet-voiced  English  girl. 

Friendships  are  formed  quicker  at  sea  than  on  land ;  and  a 
week  had  not  elapsed,  ere,  in  a  moment  of  insanity,  I  had 
besought  Carrie  Stanley  to  become  my  betrothed  bride.  She 
would  have  brought  me  broad  lands  as  her  dower,  and  a  face 
fair  as  our  dreams  of  heaven ;  and  yet,  God  knows,  Silence  was 
my  one  love,  even  then.  Carrie  was  calmly,  tranquilly  dear,  but 
never,  for  one  moment,  did  my  heart  thrill  to  word  or  look  of 
hers  as  it  had  done  to  the  lightest  tone  of  Silence  Adams. 

We  were  yet  many  leagues  from  shore,  when  Carrie,  my  fair 
orphan  Carrie,  sickened  and  died,  with  her  head  lying  upon  my 
breast.  The  sunshine  of  heaven  seemed  to  break  upon  her  vision 
ere  she  departed,  and,  pressing  my  hand  to  her  lips,  she  whis 
pered,  "  I  am  being  translated  into  the  ineffable  glory.  You 
will  follow  me  some  time  into  this  great  Peace." 

She  died  without  a  struggle,  and  round  her  lips  lingered,  even 
in  death,  that  smile  kindled  by  the  dawning  light  of  Paradise. 


SILENCE  ADAMS.  173 

I  heard  them  say,  "We  commit  this,  our  sister,  unto  the 
deep ! "  A  sullen  plash,  and  all  was  over ;  and  yet  I  do  not  think 
I  mourned  her. 

I  had  never  loved  her  with  a  human  passion.  She  seemed 
rather  some  beautiful  angel  I  had  met  in  dreams.  If  there  was 
loneliness  at  my  heart  as  we  heaved  in  sight  of  the  English 
shore,  the  name  to  which  the  aching  chords  thrilled  was  not 
Carrie's. 


Three  years  had  passed.  It  was  the  early  Italian  spring, 
and  I  sat  alone  in  my  pleasant  villa  at  sunny  Florence.  I  had 
travelled  over  many  lands  ;  gazed  in  blue  eyes,  black  eyes  and 
gray  eyes;  flirted  with  the  phlegmatic  German,  the  lively 
Frenchwoman,  and  the  Italian  with  her  lustrous  eyes  and  her 
voice  of  music.  And  yet  but  one  name  was  on  my  lips,  but 
one  face  was  in  my  heart,  as  I  sat  there  dreaming  in  the  hazy 
glow  of  the  southern  sunset,  —  the  name,  the  face  of  Silence 
Adams. 

I  thought  of  that  strange  love  which  seemed  born  with  me  ; 
of  the  destiny  which  had  linked  our  fates  together;  of  the 
halls  of  Oakwood,  and  the  night  on  which  we  murmured  our 
troth-plight.  She  seemed  to  rise  before  me,  in  her  youth  and 
beauty,  as  I  saw  her  then.  I  could  see  the  very  flutter  of  her 
white  robe,  and  catch  the  music  of  her  voice,  as  she  mur 
mured,  "  I  love  you,  William !  " 

And  then  came  that  other  memory,  crushing,  and  stern,  and 
terrible. 

But  —  had  I  not  wronged  her  ?  It  was  the  first  time  I  had 
15* 


174  SILENCE   ADAMS. 

ever  asked  myself  this  question  —  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
admitted  to  myself  such  a  possibility. 

I  rose  hurriedly,  and,  tumbling  to  the  floor  the  varied  contents 
of  my  trunk,  clutched  eagerly  that  note  —  fair  and  pure,  and 
closely  sealed,  still.  I  read  it,  not  with  a  burst  of  tears,  but 
•with  a  frozen  heart,  and  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets. 
Silence  was  pure,  pure  as  heaven ! 

It  is  a  long  way  back  now,  and  I  '11  try  to  explain  it  all 
calmly,  as  she  did  in  that  little  note. 

The  poor  child's  mother,  ardent,  beautiful  and  enthusiastic, 
had  incurred  the  everlasting  displeasure  of  her  parents  by  mar 
rying,  for  love,  a  poor  but  handsome  navy  officer.  He  had 
proved  to  be  dissipated  and  unworthy  of  her,  but  she  still  clung 
to  him  with  all  a  woman's  truth,  and  followed  him  from  place  to 
place  with  her  little  Henry,  until,  five  years  after  the  birth  of 
this  idolized  child,  Herbert  Leslie  was  shot  in  a  duel. 

The  next  day  Silence  was  born.  There  was  but  rude  nursing 
at  the  barracks,  and  no  gentle  tones  of  kindness.  The  one  voice, 
which  would  even  now  have  been  music  to  the  poor  mother's 
ears,  was  hushed  in  death,  and  all  around  was  cold,  and  calm, 
and  very  still. 

"Let  her  be  called  Silence"  whispered  the  mother  to  the 
grim,  hard-featured  nurse  standing  at  the  bed's  foot  —  "  Silence 
Adams ; "  and  then  those  thin  lips  seemed  to  move  in  prayer 
for  a  few  moments,  and  —  Silence  Adams  was  motherless ! 

Her  grandparents  heard  of  their  daughter's  death,  and  of  the 
h«lpless  babe,  and  came  to  claim  her ;  but  the  boy  bore  his 
father's  face,  and  looked  at  them  with  his  father's  eyes,  and  they 


SILENCE   ADAMS.  175 

drove  him  from  their  presence;  nor  could  any  persuasions 
induce  them  to  admit  him  to  Oakwood. 

When  Silence  grew  older,  Henry  made  himself  known  to  her ; 
and  she,  with  so  few  to  love,  had  lavished  upon  him  a  tender 
ness  which  was  almost  idolatry.  He  had  bound  her  by  a  solemn 
oath  to  conceal  from  every  human  ear  her  knowledge  of  him ; 
and  she  dared  not  reveal  it,  even  to  me,  without  his  consent.  I 
had  surprised  them  at  one  of  their  stolen  interviews,  just  as  she 
had  succeeded  in  obtaining  his  permission  to  reveal  these  facts 
to  her  betrothed. 

"  And  now,  William,"  thus  the  note  concluded,  "  now  that 
you  know  all,  dearest,  you  will  hasten  to  me,  will  you  not,  and 
take  back  all  those  cruel  words  ?  0 !  William,  William,  if  I 
thought  them  true,  I  do  believe  my  poor  heart  would  break." 

Yes,  Silence  was  pure,  pure  as  heaven;  and  I — O,  God, 
could  it  be  that  I  should  yet  be  forgiven  ?  There  was  hope  in 
the  very  thought.  I  placed  the  priceless  note  in  my  bosom,  col 
lected  my  effects  hurriedly  together,  and  travelled  post-haste  for 
Liverpool.  The  seventh  day  from  that  time  saw  me  embark  for 
America.  • 

0,  how  impatiently  I  trod  the  good  ship's  deck!  how  I  prayed 
for  gales,  tempests,  anything  that  might  bear  us  more  swiftly  on 
our  way !  Hours  seemed  like  months,  and  days  like  weary  ages, 
until,  sailing  thus  o'er  the  calm  blue  sea,  as  in  other  dayS,  there 
came  to  me  a  vision  of  the  lost  Caroline. 

Her  brow  was  as  fair  as  ever,  her  eyes  were  as  bright,  but 
calmer  than  of  yore.  It  seemed  that  about  her  was  floating  the 
very  radiance  of  that  ineffable  glory. 

It  may  have   been  but  a  dream.     I  dare  not  think  it  was 


176  SILENCE   ADAMS. 

more ;  but,  in  the  calm,  silent  night,  she  seemed  to  stand  beside 
me,  and  lay  her  cool  hand  upon  my  brow.  She  spoke  —  but  it 
seemed  like  the  voice  of  a  soul,  and  the  bright  lips  were 
motionless. 

"  Beloved,"  she  whispered,  "  I  have  come  to  warn  you. 
Human  hearts  must  suffer.  Perfect  peace  comes  only  when  we 
are  absorbed  in  the  Infinite.  There  is  many  a  path  before  you 
where  the  flowers  beneath  your  feet  will  turn  to  thorns,  and 
where  no  cool  water  lies.  But  be  patient,  O  my  beloved  !  If 
the  great  good  comes  not  on  earth,  will  it  not  go  before  you  to 
heaven  ?  " 

And  the  dream,  the  vision,  passed  away,  and  my  soul  came 
back  to  this  earthly  life,  with  a  murmur  on  my  lips  —  "Yes, 
in  heaven." 

Ah !  I  have  had  need  to  say  it  over  many  times ! 

After  that,  I  grew  calm  and  patient,  and  only  whispered  the 
name  of  my  beloved  in  prayers. 

At  last  my  feet  touched  the  shore.  I  had  no  time  to  gaze 
up  to  the  blue  sky,  or  down  to  the  green  earth ;  there  was  not 
even  time  for  my  soul  to  thrill  •to  the  joy  of  seeing  my  native 
land.  I  hurried  restlessly  onward.  It  was  midsummer  after 
noon  when  I  reached  my  father's  gate,  and,  once  more  throwing 
the  reins  to  the  servant,  hurried  over  the  fields  to  Oakwood. 

I  ctfuld  see  it  in  the  distance.  Its  turrets  looked  grand, 
and  calm,  and  still,  at  even.  And  Silence,  would  she  be  there 
to  greet  me  ? 

Could  she  forgive  me  ?  What  justification  could  I  plead  for  my 
great  wrong  ?  Suddenly  my  heart  stood  still.  I  grasped  the  limb 


SILENCE    IDAMS.  ,         177 

of  a  willow  that  hung  drooping  in  my  path  for  support,  and  I 
looked  resolutely  towards  Oakwood. 

Merciful  God  !  was  that  a  funeral  procession  which  was  com 
ing  through  the  gates,  as  if  to  meet  me  ?  That  coffin  with  its 
waving  pall,  those  girls  robed  in  white,  scattering  flowers ! 

How  madly  I  hurried  on !  They  set  the  coffin  down  in  front 
of  the  gateway,  after  the  manner  of  country  funerals. 

Slowly  they  turned  back  the  pall.  Slowly  they  lifted  the  lid, 
and  madly  I  hurried  onward. 

They  gave  way  before  my  coming,  as  if  they  had.  seen  a 
spectre,  and  I  gained  the  spot. 

For  one  moment  I  veiled  my  eyes,  and  then  I  glanced  down 
ward.  It  was  Silence  !  —  my  Silence  —  cold,  still,  dead  ! 

0,  Heaven,  how  beautiful  she  looked  there  !  The  blue-veined 
lids  were  closed  over  the  brown  eyes  I  had  so  loved  to  gaze  into ; 
but  the  brown  hair  lay  above  her  brow  as  of  old,  soft,  and  fair, 
and  very  smooth. 

The  village  girls  had  placed  white  roses  on  her  breast,  and 
there,  above  her  white  robe,  above  the  cold,  pulseless  heart,  lay 
the  golden  cross  I  had  given  her  ! 

Silence !  my  own,  my  beautiful !  faithful  in  death,  as  in 
life! 

Was  the  love  passionate  and  earthly  which  forced  me  to  press 
such  wild,  beseeching  kisses  upon  her  brow  and  lips,  which  made 
my  hot  tears  fall  over  her  like  a  rain  of  molten  lava  ?  0,  why, 
why  did  they  not  waken  her  ?  "  Silence ! "  I  shrieked,  "  Silence ! " 
but  there  came  no  answer  from  the  lips  that  had  always  before 
welcomed  my  coming.  "  Silence ! "  and  still  the  fair,  sweet, 


178  SILENCE   ADAMS. 

almost  mocking  smile  rested  on  those  beautiful  features.  It  drove 
me  mad. 

I  did  not  know  whether  I  followed  her  to  the  grave.  I  did 
not  know  even  where  they  laid  my  beautiful;  but,  when  my 
overthrown  reason  came  tottering  back  again,  I  found  myself  with 
the  old  people,  her  grandparents,  who  were  forgetting  their  grief 
in  earnest  strivings  to  lighten  my  wilder  sorrow. 

They  were  gathered  to  their  fathers  long  ago,  and  Oakwood  is 
mine  now. 

Her  brother  dwells  here  with  me,  —  her  brother  and  his  sweet 
young  wife,  —  and  their  fair  children  play  at  my  feet ;  but  I  do 
not  envy  him. 

My  wife  is  waiting  for  me  above ;  and,  as  surely  as  I  die,  God 
has  mercifully  given  me  faith  that  I  shall  rise  again,  and  go 
home  to  heaven  and  to  her  ;  for,  when  I  depart,  will  not  the  last 
name  on  my  lips  be  SILENCE  ADAMS  ! 


ONLY  A  PAUPER. 


OYER  the  stony  street  of  the  great  city  the  iron-shod  car  rat 
tled  onward,  bearing  the  rude,  hastily-constructed  hearse. 

The  coffin  was  narrow,  and  rather  short,  and  the  sexton's  lip 
curled  slightly,  as,  in  answer  to  our  half-whispered  inquiry,  he 
muttered,  "  Only  a  pauper!  "  The  form  within  was  very  slight 
and  fair,  the  features  delicate  and  purely  classical  in  their  out 
line,  the  mouth  like  a  frozen  rosebud,  and  forth  from  the  coarse 
cap  had  strayed  one  long,  sunny  curl,  which  fond  hands  long  ago 
must  have  nurtured  carefully. 

But  there  was  no  funeral  train  to  go  to  the  pauper  burial ;  only 
the  sullen  hearse-driver  and  the  two  bearers,  with  the  brutal, 
stupid  leer  on  their  coarse  faces. 

No  long  array  of  coaches  wheeled  along  in  stately  grandeur, 
with  the  black  plumes  nodding  their  solemn  mockery  over  the 
horses'  heads ! 

There  was  no  silver  plate,  or  sculptured  marble,  on  which  to 
write  out  the  sanctified  lies  of  an  epitaph;  no  parson  to  say  his 
prayer,  or  clerk  to  breathe  ameris,  as  they  lowered  the  dead 
woman  to  her  nameless  grave.  Therefore  the  sexton's  lip  curled ; 
therefore  he  answered  me,  "  Only  a  pauper!  " 

Was  this,  indeed,  all  ?  Had  life  for  her  no  deeper  destiny  ? 
Were  there  no  eyes  which  brightened  at  the  light  in  her  own,  no 
broad  breast  where  her  head  might  lean,  no  child's  voice  to  call 


180  ONLY  A  PAUPER. 

her  mother  ?  Had  no  father's  lips  ever  blessed  her,  no  mother's 
hand  parted  the  sunshine  of  her  flowing  curls  ?  0,  yes  !  Once 
a  sweet  country  home  had  echoed  back  her  laugh,  a  deep  voice 
had  whispered  lovingly  in  her  ear,  and  her  sleep  had  grown  sweet 
with  a  small  head  pillowed  on  her  bosom.  But  father  and 
mother  had  long  lain  sleeping  ;  the  sod  had  grown  over  his  broad 
breast;  and,  for  the  child,  the  gaunt,  half-famished  thing  was 
whipped  for  crying,  and  told  it  was  no  use  for  her  to  go  to  the 
pauper  funeral. 

As  for  souls,  does  anybody  know  whether  paupers  have  such 
an  article  ?  Hers  must  have  been  safe  enough;  or,  if  it  were  not, 
who  cared  ?  —  she  was  only  a  pauper  ! 


HOME  AGAIN. 


RYEFIELD,  next  station  !  "  Hurra !  It  seems  good  to  get 
into  a  Christian  country  once  more,  after  a  three-years'  camping 
out  among  California  savages.  I  declare,  I  wonder  if  Kate 
has  n't  just  got  supper  ready !  " 

"  Hurra,  there,  Mr.  Conductor  !  just  shove  out  my  baggage ; 
I  'm  off  here  !  "  And,  sure  enough,  he  hurries  home  at  the  rate 
of  two  locomotives  tied  together. 

"  Kate !  Kate !  I  say,  little  wife,  where  are  you  ? "  and  he 
looks  through  the  window.  "  Whew  !  — w-h-e-w  !  if  that  is  n't 
comfortable ! — There  sits  Katie  with  a  handsome  young  man.  In 
a  blue  dress,  too ;  the  gypsy  always  knew  she  looked  prettiest  in 
blue  ;  —  and  those  earrings,  too,  confound  the  woman  !  I  wonder 
where  she  gets  money  to  dash  out  with,  when  I  am  digging  away 
in  California !  Taking  her  hand  now !  Sathanos,  what  will 
come  next  ?  May  you  go  to  —  Kate,  God  bless  you,  darling ! 
—  Kate  !  I  say,  Kate  !  "  and  he  raised  his  voice  a  little. 

"  My  husband !  "  and  the  prettiest  white  arms  in  the  world 
are  round  his  neck,  the  rosiest  lips  pressed  to  his  own,  and  over 
the  bright  black  eyes  close  long,  jetty  lashes,  heavy  with 
tears ! 

I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  by  this  time  the  husband's  heart 
was  softened  considerably.  It  might  have  been  owing  to  the  in 
fluence  of  a  certain  other  heart,  beating  and  throbbing  against 


184  HOME  AGAIN. 

his  own ;  but  it 's  certain  he  gave  the  handsome  young  felbw, 
his  wife's  youngest  brother,  a  cordial  welcome,  and  sat  down  with 
his  good  humor  not  at  all  diminished  by  the  sight  of  nicely- 
browned  biscuits  and  smoking  tea-cakes. 


A  handsome  man,  with  a  slightly  sunburned  face,  sat,  in  the 
afternoon  train  toward  Slingsby,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand. 
He  had  been  for  three  years  a  wanderer,  and  come  home  rich. 
Rich  I  there  Js  a  great  deal  in  that  word,  to  most.  To  him  there 
was  everything !  The  proud  man  had  seen  his  delicate  wife, 
reared  in  luxury,  reduced  to  privation,  and  she  suffered,  and 
complained  not ;  but  it  maddened  him.  He  left  her  on  a 
crusade  for  gold,  —  left  her  with  a  weary  memory  dwelling  in 
his  soul  of  clinging  arms,  and  passionate  kisses.  The  deep, 
bright  eyes  of  their  one  child,  their  almost  angel  Florence,  looked 
on  him  in  his  dreams  sometimes,  and  he  heard  the  last  tear- 
choked  "  God  bless  you  !  "  from  his  young  wife's  lips. 

Not  for  many  a  weary  month  has  he  heard  tidings  from  home  ; 
and  there  were  tears  in  the  deep  eyes  that  shone  from  underneath 
his  slouched  Spanish  hat,  as  he  hurried  from  the  Slingsby  depot. 

The  roses  were  bright  around  the  porch  of  that  little  fairy 
cottage,  the  woodbine  was  green  over  it,  and  forth  from  tufts  of 
mignonette  and  hearts-ease  floated  a  faint,  delicate  breath  of 
perfume.  But  where  were  his  wife's  blue  eyes,  where  the  sun 
shine  of  Florence's  golden  hair  ?  He  hurried  in ;  there  was  no 
sound  of  life,  and  the  pale,  thin  figure  lying  on  the  couch,  with 
the  golden-fringed  lids  drooping  heavily  over  the  blue  eyes,  can 
that  be  Jennie,  —  his  Jennie?  It  must  be.  "Jennie,  sweet 


THE   RfiTCJRNi'D    CALIFORNIA!* 


HOME  AGAIN.  185 

wife  ! "  and  the  words  burst  from  his  heart  like  a  low  wail.  The 
lids  unclose,  —  the  ripe  lips  part,  —  and  then  she  sinks  in  his 
arms  in  a  fainting  fit,  almost  like  death. 

A  half-hour  later,  and  he  held  her  on  his  breast,  murmuring 
low  words  of  love,  blent  with  vows  never  again  to  part  on  earth. 
"But  Florence,  our  Florence!"  he  asked,  at  last;  "where  is 
$he  ?  " 

"  Dead,  dearest,  dead ! "  and  the  young  wife  clung  to  him 
convulsively.  "  Dead !  "  and  the  word  swelled  on  his  ear  like 
the  wail  from  a  broken  heart. 

Yes,  there  was  life  and  light  on  earth,  and  the  great  world 
recked  not  that  the  grass  grew  green  over  that  child-heart,  that 
the  violets  nodded  above  those  closed  eyes,  and  that  only  dirges 
were  the  husband's  welcome  home ! 

Ah  me !  can  gold  pay  for  the  wasted  wealth  of  the  heart  ? 
Can  the  gleam  of  gems  shine  out  of  memory  the  tears  that  sparkle 
in  the  eyes  we  love ;  or  velvet  spreads,  enwrought  with  gold  and 
pearl,  warm  us  like  the  clasp  of  clinging  arms  which  hold  us  to  a 
heart  that  beats  for  us  only  ? 


ONLY  AN   OLD  MAID. 


No,  no,  nothing  but  that !  She  has  never  derived  any  addi 
tional  importance  from  linking  her  name  with  yours,  imperial 
man !  —  never  grown  angelized  by  a  wife's  thrice-drugged  potion 
of  care  and  sorrow.  She  lives  alone,  in  a  little,  lonely  house,  — 
alone,  with  her  black  cat,  and  her  memories  of  the  past ! 

For  even  she  has  past  memories ;  you  can't  deprive  her  of 
those.  Sitting  in  her  quiet  room,  with  the  black  cat  purring  at 
her  feet,  voices  steal  to  her  from  the  olden  time,  —  dreams  and 
loves,  vague,  and  dim,  and  distant,  from  the  lost  paradise  of 
Life! 

Sunshine  streams  again  over  the  broad  green  meadows  of  her 
child-life ;  sunshine  lies  on  the  tufts  of  fresh  red  strawberries, 
and  browns  the  small  fingers  that  clasp  her  own.  She  wanders 
over  hill,  and  dell,  and  woodland,  with  young,  happy  hearts 
beating  at  her  side,  opening  such  golden  leaves  in  her  book  of 
destiny  as  make  her  eye  brighten  with  the  twin  lights  of  youth 
and  hope ! 

And  then  the  pale  shadow-hands  of  spirits  lift  the  curtain 
from  before  a  veiled  picture. 

The  old  maid  gazes  once  more  into  "  bonny  wells  of  eyes," 
brushes  back  long,  fair  curls,  and  holds  her  breath  while  a  low 
voice  breathes  her  name  ! 

Dead  or  false !  —  which  was  he  ?     Who  shall  tell  ?     It  was  a 


ONLY   AN   OLD   MAID.  187 

gay,  glad  morning,  when  she  saw  him  last,  as  he  stood  on  a 
proud  ship's  deck,  and  waved  his  hand  in  fond  farewell.  What 
years  she  hoped,  and  waited !  —  but  he  never  came  again.  Did  he 
hold  some  Eastern  beauty  to  his  heart,  or  was  the  sea-sand  drag 
gling  in  his  long,  bright  curls  ?  Who  shall  say  ?  Only  the 
voice  of  the  recording  angel,  in  that  day  when  the  sea  gives  up 
its  dead ! 

But  she  hoped  and  waited,  and  she  is  an  old  maid  now,  —  a 
lonely,  loveless  old  maid.  Young  .misses,  who  are  just  out  of 
school,  and  into  market,  sneer  at  her,  pursing  up  their  dainty 
little  lips. 

Young  men,  who  exult  in  long,  silky  moustaches,  and  bandit- 
looking  whiskers,  look  at  her  patronizingly,  and  call  her  "  the 
old  girl."  Married  ladies,  who  quarrel  with  their  lords  half  the 
twenty-four  hours,  and  gossip  about  their  neighbors  the  other 
half,  condescend  to  pity  her,  and  she,  —  0,  she  gropes  along 
graveward,  and  does  n't  mind  ! 

True,  those  eyes  grow  dim  with  tears  sometimes,  as  she  looks 
on  shapes  from  the  spectre-land  of  the  past ;  but  she  chokes  them 
all  back  again.  Tears  are  romantic  in  the  eyes  of  beauty,  but, 
reddening  the  old  maid's  peaked  nose,  they  are  stuff  and  non 
sense  ! 

Ridiculous  of  her  it  is,  you  say,  to  wear  those  stiff,  short  curls. 
You  forget  it  may  be  because  he  liked  them. 

You  call  her  a  winter-rose,  dried  and  withered,  when  you  see 
her  in  her  bright  shawl ;  but  it  was  his  last  gift. 

To  me  there  is  something  beautiful  in  the  eternality  of  a  love 
which  triumphs  over  time  and  death ;  but,  alas !  I  can't  make 
the  old  maid  a  heroine  in  any  eyes  but  my  own. 


188  ONLY   AN    OLD   MAID. 

This  is  merely  because  I  cannot  make  her  young  and  beau 
tiful ;  because  she  will  train  those  winter  curls  like  tendrils  of 
the  spring  ;  because,  with  her  love  and  hope  in  heaven,  she  is  in 
the  world,  and  not  of  the  world. 

She  must  live  on  alone ;  drink  her  tea  out  of  her  little,  old- 
fashioned  tea-pot ;  eat  her  marmalade  out  of  her  little,  old-fash 
ioned  dessert-plates,  and,  by  and  by,  lay  her  down  to  die,  and  be 
followed  to  her  grave  only  by  her  black  cat,  and  — 

ELLEN  LOUISE. 


LENORE. 


HUSH  thy  foot-fall,  lightly  tread, 
Passing  by  a  loved  one's  bed  ! 
Dust  hath  gathered  on  her  brow, 
Silently  she  sleepeth  now  ! 

Sank  she  unto  dreamless  rest, 
Clasping  violets  to  her  breast, 
With  her  forehead  pale  and  fair 
'Neath  the  midnight  of  her  hair. 

And  the  sunshine,  wandering  by, 
Paused  a  while  to  see  her  die ;  — 
Stealing  with  a  silent  tread, 
Wove  a  glory  round  her  head. 

Angels,  bending  from  the  skies, 
Gently  closed  her  dimming  eyes,  — 
Kissing  then  her  lips  so  fair, 
Left  an  Eden  smiling  there  ! 

Then  we  laid  her  down  to  sleep, 
Where  the  wild-flowers  bend  and  weep  ; 
Earth  below,  and  blue  sky  o'er, 
Sweetly  sleeps  our  own  Lenore  ! 


SEPULCHRES. 


I  WONDER  if  there  is  any  human  heart  which  has  not  its  own 
grave-yard,  —  its  tombs,  and  monuments,  and  haunted  houses — • 
its  sepulchres,  from  which  the  buried  hopes  come  out  at  mid' 
night,  like  sheeted  ghosts  ? 

There  be  coffins  of  gold,  and  coffins  of  silver;  and  there  lie 
dead  bodies,  white  and  ghastly,  wrapped  only  in  winding-sheets 
of  pride. 

Sometimes  memory-bells  toll  over  the  unquiet  sleepers,  and 
other  hopes  and  loves  say  a  solemn  mass  for  the  repose  of  the 
dead.  But  yet  the  spectres  will  come  out  upon  the  "  Ghost's 
Walk ; "  and  though,  in  the  careless  day-time,  we  can  pass 
them  by  with  a  "  God  bless  you,"  such  as  the  Swedes  give  to  a 
sneezing  traveller,  in  the  night  they  do  lay  cold  hands  upon  our 
brows,  and  startle  us  strangely,  making  us  close  our  eyes  against 
the  vision,  and  mutter  prayers  and  Ave  Marias  ! 

There  be  often  grave-yards,  —  solemn  ones,  —  behind  holy 
country  churches,  where  the  dead  go  to  sleep  within  the  sound 
of  the  organ  on  holy-days  and  festivals,  and  the  harmonies  of  the 
church-choirs  singing  together.  There  be  crosses  and  monuments 
over  them,  which  the  country  people  twine  round  with  wreaths 
and  garlands,  and  there  the  village  sexton  says,  "  The  dead 
sleep  well ! " 

There  be  others  still,  in  the  great  city,  where  the  dome  frowns 


SEPULCHRES.  191 

over  them,  and  the  mighty  shadow  of  Saint  Paul's  falls  over  the 
passing  traveller  like  a  spell. 

There,  above  hearts  that  once  were  quick  with  life,  are  strange 
shapes  of  mighty  warriors  in  bronze  and  marble,  gleaming 
swords,  and  the  presence  of  a  brooding  human  pride. 

We  can  look  on  them  calmly ;  for  never  do  the  graves  open, 
never  do  the  warriors  in  bronze  and  marble  totter  on  their  pedes 
tals,  and  the  church-clock  ticks  in  their  presence,  and  the  church- 
bell  rings ! 

But  the  sepulchres  in  the  grave-yards  of  our  hearts  have 
yawning  mouths,  and  from  them  comes  silently  many  a  Lazarus, 
with  a  frown  upon  his  brow.  There  is  no  power,  no  spell,  to 
lay  the  spirit.  Star-beam  and  moon-beam  stream  in  vain  over 
the  sepulchres  of  our  hearts,  —  the  shrines  and  altars  where  are 
only  the  ashes  of  desolation  ! 


S¥EET  ELLEN   ADAIR. 

"  Ellen  Adair,  she  loved  me  well, 

Against  her  father's  and  mother's  will ; 
To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept 

By  Ellen's  grave  on  the  windy  hill. 
Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold  — 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the  sea  ; 
Filled  was  I  with  folly  and  spite, 

"When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

"  Cruel,  cruel  were  the  words  I  said, 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day  ; 
'  Ton  're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 

'  To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray.' 
There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass  — 

Whispered,  '  Listen  to  my  despair  ; 
I  repent  me  of  all  I  did, 

Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair  ! ' 

"  Then  I  took  a  pencil  and  wrote, 

On  a  mossy  stone  as  I  lay, 
'Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ; 

And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  ! ' 
Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 

And  fly  like  a  bird  from  tree  to  tree, 
But  /will  love  no  more,  no  more, 

Till  Ellen  Adair  comes  back  to  me  !  "        TENNYSON. 

I  AM  sitting  here  alone,  in  my  old  maid's  room.     The  sun 
shine  drifts  pleasantly  in  at  the  windows ;  the  orioles  and  robins 


SWEET   ELLEN   AD  AIR.  193 

have  built  their  nests  in  the  trees  that  overshadow  my  eaves ; 
the  cool  breeze  lifts  my  silver  hair  lightly,  and  I  am  happy,  with 
a  strange,  quiet  blessedness. 

Voices  come  to  me  from  bright,  young  lips,  that  were  long  ago 
laid  to  rest  beneath  the  grave-yard  turf.  "White,  dimpled  hands 
are  clasping  mine,  and  I  am  wandering  again  with  those  beloved 
dead,  over  the  enchanted  paths  of  my  childhood. 

Once  more  we  gather  strawberries  in  the  meadows,  or  go  nut 
ting  in  the  still  haunts  of  the  woodland. 

And  among  those  buried  friends  and  loves  there  is  one  face 
fairer  than  all,  —  a  quiet,  calm,  spiritual  face  ;  clear  chestnut 
eyes,  overshadowed  by  glossy  chestnut  hair  —  the  hair,  the  eyes, 
of  Ellen  Adair !  I  met  one  like  her,  in  Charlestown,  a  few  weeks 
since,  one  as  fair  almost  as  she  was  ;  and  Ellen  Adair  rose  up 
again  before  me,  pure,  fresh  and  lovely. 

It  is  but  a  few  days  since  I  sat  underneath  the  beech-tree  by 
the  garden  wall,  with  a  living  friend  beside  me,  —  one  who,  for 
many  years,  seemed  to  me  as  a  brother, — and  I  listened  to  a  tale 
of  those  other  days,  of  which  I  will  tell  you  here  in  the  pages 
of  this  old  book,  this  memoir  of  my  youth,  which  I  shall  leave 
behind  me  for  my  nephews  and  nieces  to  read,  when  I  too  have 
gone  to  the  land  of  shadows. 

My  pet  namesake  came  to  me,  the  other  day,  with  her  sweet 
face  wearing  an  unusually  grave  expression,  and  askecl  me,  very 
earnestly,  "  Aunt  Louise,  you  are  an  old  maid,  an't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  I  answered,  nothing  daunted. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Louise,  did  anybody  ever  want  to  marry 
you  ? " 

17 


194  SWEET   ELLEN   ADAIR. 

"  You  shall  know  when  I  am  dead,  darling,"  was  my  reply  ; 
and  the  sweet  questioner  left  me  with  tearful  eyes. 

O,  blessed  be  God  for  love  !  It  is  a  blessed  thing  to  be  thus 
dear  to  Gertrude's  children,  even  though  no  childish  voice  can 
ever  call  me  mother,  no  small,  rose-dimpled  hand  ever  rest  upon 
my  bosom.  Yes,  they  will  read  the  history  of  my  poor  heart's 
loves  and  hopes,  when  I  am  dead ;  and  then,  too,  they  may 
read  the  story  of  Ellen  Adair,  in  these  leaves  out  of  my 
diary ! 

I  can  just  remember  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  It  had  been 
rumored  about,  in  our  village,  that  a  new  family  had  moved  into 
the  neighborhood ;  and  of  course  their  children,  more  or  less, 
would  attend  our  next  term  of  school.  The  first  day  of  school  is 
always,  like  the  last  one,  an  important  occasion ;  there  is  the 
new  teacher  to  criticize,  the  new  scholars  to  get  acquainted  with, 
and  the  new  rules  to  listen  to. 

I  remember  this  day  was  a  particularly  important  one  to  me, 
for  it  was  the  first  time  I  wore  my  new  pink  dress,  and  that 
little  new  white  apron. 

School-girls  can  generally  afford  to  be  generous  enough  to 
admire  what  belongs  to  another,  and  my  dress  and  apron  elicited 
their  due  share  of  approval  ere  I  commenced  to  watch  the  grav 
elled  walk  leading  from  Mr.  Adair's  (the  new  neighbor's)  front 
door,  and  "  wonder  "  how  many  new  scholars  would  come. 

At  last  the  door  opened,  and  one  little  girl  came  out  all  alone. 
She  left  the  yard,  crossed  the  street,  and  came  up  to  the  school- 
house.  As  she  approached,  the  scholars  all  looked  at  the  shy, 
pale,  delicate  little  creature,  in  her  sky-blue  muslin  frock,  with 
an  air  of  not  unkind  curiosity ;  but  they  all  withdrew  as  die 


SWEET   ELLEN   ADAIH.  195 

entered.  I  was  about  to  follow  them,  when  another  glance  at 
her  timid,  appealing  face  determined  me  to  remain. 

I  approached  her  very  gently  (thinking,  I  remember,  that  my 
pink  dress  and  white  apron  might  serve  to  assist  me  in  making  a 
favorable  impression),  and  asked  if  I  should  show  her  where 
to  put  her  bonnet. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  gently  —  "I  don't  know  any  one  here  ; 
will  you  please  to  tell  me  what  your  name  is  ? " 

"  Louise  Cleveland,"  I  answered,  with  a  smile,  quite  delighted 
at  finding  her  so  easy  to  get  acquainted  with.  "  Louise  Cleve 
land,  —  and  yours  ?  " 

"  0,  I  am  Ellen  Adair." 

"  Ellen  Adair,"  I  repeated  ;  "  it  is  a  sweet  name,  and  I  mean 
to  love  you  very  much,  —  may  I  ?  " 

Her  answer  was  a  kiss ;  and  from  that  hour  she  was  my  other 
self,  a  part  of  my  very  existence. 

In  the  play-ground  I  was  her  champion,  and  in  the  languages 
her  guide  and  assistant ;  while  she  repaid  me  by  lending  me  the 
advantage  of  her  unusual  quickness  in  mathematics,  for  which 
her  love  amounted  almost  to  a  passion. 

Strange  as  this  love  seemed  to  me  then,  now  that  I  think  of 
it,  it  seems  not  quite  so  singular,  for  hers  was  a  mathematical 
character,  —  about  her  every  act  there  was  a  kind  of  mathemat 
ical  precision,  —  and  her  ideas  of  right  and  wrong  were  as 
thoroughly  grounded  on  the  plummet-and-line  system  as  if 
every  act  were  the  solution  of  a  problem  in  geometry. 

For  years  our  friendship  continued  to  glide  along  in  the  same 
uninterrupted  channel,  when  at  length  a  stranger  came  to  dis 
turb  the  current  of  Ellen  Adair's  peaceful  life.  I  have  met, 


196  SWEET   ELLEN   ADAIR. 

during  my  long  life,  many  persons  whom  to  see  was  to  admire, 
but  I  never  met  one  whose  first  appearance  was  so  irresistibly 
impressive  as  that  of  Edward  Gray. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  brilliant  talents,  and  of  rare  promise 
in  his  chosen  profession,  the  law  ;  but  he  was  poor,  and  in  debt 
for  his  education,  and  this  seemed  to  close  against  him  many  of 
the  hospitable  doors  of  Byefield,  and,  among  others,  that  of  the 
aristocratic  Colonel  Adair. 

But  he  soon  became  a  warm  friend  of  my  brother  Frank,  and 
a  frequent  visitor  at  my  father's  house. 

Of  course,  Ellen  soon  met  him  there ;  and  it  seemed  to  me, 
from  the  first,  that  they  were  made  for  each  other.  When  I 
introduced  them,  Edward  bent  upon  the  delicate  girl  a  glance  of 
intense,  almost  passionate  admiration  ;  and  she  —  but  it  was  not 
possible  for  any  one  to  see  Edward  Gray  without  an  involun 
tary  admission  of  his  superiority. 

He  was  about  the  medium  height,  with  a  full  chest,  strong 
arms,  and  firmly-knit  muscles.  His  forehead  was  broad  and 
prominent,  and  over  it  hung  thick  curls  of  coal-black  hair; 
while  beneath  his  heavy  brows  flashed  eyes  so  black,  so  large,  so 
glorious,  that  to  meet  them  was  almost  to  adore  them.  His 
manners  were  faultless  ;  and  his  voice  (as  if  a  woman  ever  could 
forget  that)  was  clear,  and  deep,  and  musical.  He  said  but 
little,  except  when  he  was  particularly  interested,  and  then  forth 
from  his  lips  would  burst  a  whole  flood-tide  of  eloquent  words, 
swaying  you  like  the  sea. 

It  was  a  quiet  summer  evening  when  they  first  met.  The 
trees  waved  their  giant  arms  between  them  and  the  blue  sky, 
spangled  with  stars.  Beneath  their  feet  was  the  cool,  soft  grass, 


SWEET   ELLEN    ADAIR.  197 

and  around  them  the  balmy  air  of  the  summer  evening,  laden 
with  moonbeams.  Ellen  and  I  were  in  the  garden,  and  Edward 
Gray  joined  us,  with  my  brother  Frank. 

After  that  they  met  quite  often,  and  soon  I  learned  that 
a  passion  new  and  absorbing  had  taken  possession  of  my  sweet 
friend. 

When  she  told  me  of  it,  with  tears  and  blushes,  she  made 
me  promise  to  guard  the  secret  in  my  own  heart ;  and  never  did 
I  breathe  it  to  mortal,  until  roses  were  growing  over  her  pure 
brow. 

"  He  will  never  love  me,"  she  cried,  amid  her  tears,  as  she 
ceased  her  narration.  "  He  could  not,  Louise,  I  am  so  small, 
and  plain,  and  foolish.  Louise,  you  know  he  could  never  love 
me,  and  don't  you  despise  me  for  loving  him  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  darling.  Why  should  I  ?  I  thought,  from  the 
first,  that  you  were  made  for  each  other,  and  the  wonder  would 
be  if  you  did  not  love  him.  I  am  sure,  dearest,  he  can't  help 
loving  you ;  nay,  I  think  he  does  already." 

Nor  was  I  wrong,  for  the  very  next  day  Edward  himself  came 
to  me  with  a  tale  of  love  for  my  sweet  Ellen,  and  in  a  similar 
manner  made  me  promise  to  preserve  silence.  So  here  was  I  iu 
possession  of  a  secret  whose  disclosure  would  have  made  two 
hearts  happy,  and  which,  yet,  I  was  bound  in  honor  not  to 
reveal.  Was  there  ever  a  more  difficult  position  for  a  woman  to 
be  placed  in  ?  0,  how  my  tongue  did  ache  !  Had  he  better  tell 
Ellen  now,  was  Edward's  concluding  question,  or  should  he  wait  ? 
Tell  her  now,  by  all  means,  I  advised. 

Always  before,  when  Ellen  had  spent  the  evening  with  us, 
my  brother  Frank  had  attended  her  home ;  but  the  next  time  she 


198  SWEET   ELLEN    ADAIR. 

came,  Frank  was  not  there,  and  I  thought  Edward  was  not  sorry 
to  have  the  opportunity.  I  watched  them  depart,  talking  gayly, 
and  then  I  reentered  the  house,  and  sat  there  building  air-castles 
as  usual,  when,  half  an  hour  later,  Edward  entered. 

"  What !  you  back  here  again,  and  so  soon  ?  "  I  exclaimed, 
as  he  approached ;  but  instantly  I  saw  something  unusual  had 
disturbed  him. 

"  Yes,  I  am  back  here,"  he  replied;  "and  I  'd  better  not  have 
left  here,  unless  I  wished  to  get  insulted  gratuitously." 

"  Why,  Edward,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Surely,  Nellie  has  n't 
rejected  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  given  her  the  opportunity." 

"  Well,  for  mercy's  sake,  what  is  it,  then  ?  Who,  in  the  name 
of  common  sense,  has  been  insulting  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  listen,  Lou  ;  you  may  as  well  know  it  first  as  last,  and 
I  '11  tell  you.  I  walked  home  with  Ellen  Adair,  simpleton  that 
I  was.  I  thought  I  had  never  been  so  happy  in  my  life  as  when 
her  little  hand  rested  confidingly,  I  almost  dared  to  think  lov 
ingly,  on  my  arm.  I  was  telling  her  of  my  past,  of  my  poverty 
ai>  -y  struggles,  and  perhaps  in  five  minutes  more  I  should 
have  asked  her  to  become  the  arbiter  of  my  future,  when  we 
arrived  at  the  door  of  her  father's  house,  and  there  was  Colonel 
Adair  himself  standing  at  the  gate. 

"  '  This  is  Mr.  Gray,  father,  who  has  come  home  with  me  from 
Louise  Cleveland's,'  said  Ellen,  timidly ;  and  then,  turning  to 
roe,  she  added,  '  Won't  you  come  in,  sir  ? ' 

"  Before  I  had  time  to  reply,  the  colonel  remarked, 

"  '  It  is  already  time  for  prayers,  and  retiring.  I  am  much 
obliged  to  the  gentleman  for  taking  you  safely  home,  though  I 


SWEET   ELLEN   ADAIK.  199 

should  prefer  you  would  always  let  me  know  where  you  are 
going,  that  I  may  have  a  servant  sent  for  you.' 

"  '  Good-night,  sir,'  said  Ellen,  gently.  '  Good-evening,'  said 
the  colonel,  in  his  most  polite  and  frigid  manner;  and  your  hum 
ble  servant,  Edward  Gray,  bowed  his  head  and  left." 

"  Yes,  Edward,"  said  I,  laughing  merrily  at  his  description, 
"you  are  proving  how  very  humble  you  are,  by  your  present 
resentment  of  an  affair  no  one  else  would  have  thought  of  con 
struing  into  an  insult.  I  suppose  that  the  colonel  thought  Ellen 
had  never  met  you  before, — did  n't  exactly  approve  of  a  stranger 
gallant,  and  probably  thought  it  was  time  for  young  people  to 
be  in  bed,  that  was  all,  —  so  run  home,  sir,  get  a  good  sleep, 
and  come  over  to  escort  Ellen  home  in  better  season  to-morrow 
night." 

However,  I  ascertained,  the  next  day,  that  there  was  more  in 
the  affair  than  my  philosophy  had  dreamed  of.  It  seemed  the 
colonel  had  been  for  some  time  mistrusting  his  daughter's 
increasing  regard  for  Edward  Gray,  and  had  determined  to 
improve  the  first  opportunity  of  expressing  his  disapprobation. 

After  prayers,  he  had  called  her  to  him,  and  firmly,  calmly 
told  her  that,  if  she  married  Edward  Gray,  she  would  henceforth 
be  no  child  of  his  ;  and  that  the  less  a  young  lady  associated  on 
intimate  terms  with  a  gentleman  she  could  not  marry,  the  better 
would  be  her  reputation. 

Poor  Ellen  came  to  me,  in  great  affliction,  the  next  morning. 
She  was  almost,  nay,  quite  certain,  that  Edward  loved  her,  from 
his  remarks,  as  he  walked  home  by  her  side ;  and,  if  he  asked 
her  love  in  return,  what  should  she  do  ? 

"  If  he  loves  you,  and  you  love  him,"  I  answered,  "  and  you 


200  8WEET   ELLEN    ADAIR. 

believe  him  good  and  true  and  noble,  marry  him,  and  make  his 
life  happy." 

Reader,  I  suppose  my  advice  was  very  wrong,  but  it  was  the 
judgment  of  an  inexperienced  girl,  deeply  anxious  for  the  happi 
ness  of  two  whom  she  most  truly  loved.  But  Ellen's  mathe 
matical  notions  of  right  were  not  so  to  be  set  aside. 

"  Why,  Louise,"  she  said,  mildly,  "  my  father  gave  me  life, 
and  he  has  a  right  to  say  to  whom  it  shall  be  devoted.  I  was 
only  deliberating  whether  I  ought  to  tell  Edward  that  I  love 
him,  or  whether  it  would  be  better  for  him  not  to  know  it." 

"  Better  for  him! "  I  exclaimed,  passionately.  "You  have  not 
a  thought  for  yourself  in  your  heart.  I  tell  you  it  won't  kill 
Edward,  any  way,  for  he 's  proud,  and  a  man,  though  he  does 
love  you ;  but  you,  Ellen  Adair,  you  will  die,  if  you  don't 
marry  him.  You  need  not  shake  your  head  —  I  've  known  you 
ever  since  you  were  a  tiny  child,  and  I  tell  you,  you  would  die. 
Don't  I  know  your  disposition?  You  never  loved  but  a  few 
persons  in  all  your  life,  and  to  lose  one  of  those  —  the  dearest, 
too  —  would  kill  you.  You  couldn't  live,  and  see  Edward 
Gray  married  to  another ! " 

0,  how  meekly  she  answered  me !  Never  had  I  seen  her 
look  so  thoroughly  angelic. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  said,  "  that  you  think  it  won't  kill 
Edward,  any  way.  As  for  me,  I  don't  think  I  shall  die  yet ; 
but  my  mother 's  in  heaven,  you  know,  already,  and  I  'm  willing 
to  go  home  to  her  when  my  Father  calls  me ;  "  and  she  raised 
her  mild,  serious  eyes  to  heaven,  with  such  an  expression  of 
hopeful  love  and  trust,  that  I  could  hardly  refrain  from  falling 


SWEET    ELLEN   ADAIR.  201 

on  my  .knees  and  worshipping  her,  as  a  visible  incarnation  of  the 
Divine  Love. 

After  that,  Edward  Gray  met  her  but  seldom,  and  even  then 
usually  in  the  presence  of  others ;  but  one  night  they  chanced  to 
be  alone  for  a  few  moments  in  the  grape-vine  arbor  at  Elm- 
wood,  and  he  told  her  all  his  love.  She  listened,  timidly,  in 
wild  joy,  blent  with  quick  throbs  of  agony,  and  when  he  con 
cluded,  she  answered,  very  quietly, 

"I  love  you,  Edward,  but  I  cannot  marry  you.  It  is  im 
possible  !  " 

"  I  knew  it  —  I  knew  it !  "  cried  Edward,  wildly,  as  he  rushed 
from  her  presence,  hearing  not,  or  heeding  not,  her  faint,  whis 
pered  request  that  he  would  return. 

Half  an  hour  later,  I  found  Ellen  alone  in  the  arbor,  sobbing 
as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"0,  Louise,"  she  said,  "I  have  made  him  angry,  and  he 
will  never  come  back.  He  would  not  wait  for  me  to  tell  him 
why  I  would  not  marry  him  —  and  he  is  gone  !  " 

And,  true  enough,  he  was  gone.  The  next  morning  Edward 
Gray  had  left  the  village,  and  it  was  years  before  we  heard  from 
him  again. 

Ellen  Adair  suffered  deeply ;  every  day  her  pale  face  seemed 
to  grow  thinner,  and  paler,  and  more  spiritual ;  but  she  did  not 
die.  She  never  uttered  a  single  complaint.  Not  one  word  of 
unthankfulness  marred  the  pure  gratitude  of  her  living  unto 

God,  for  her  life  was  one  continual  sacrifice  of  herself.     It  was 

• 
in  vain   that   men,  however   noble   or  talented,   attempted   to 

pay  her  any  attention.  They  were  repulsed  —  quietly  and  po 
litely,  it  is  true,  but  yet  most  decidedly. 


202  SWEET   ELLEN   ADAIK. 

Her  heart  had  opened  like  a  rose-bud  to  the  touch  of  one 
master  spirit;  but,  like  a  rose-bud  once  withered,  its  leaves 
could  never  again  unfold.  She  passed  her  life  in  the  discharge 
of  all  gentle  duties  of  love  and  charity ;  while  you  could  never 
have  guessed,  from  her  manner,  that  a  single  grief  had  ever 
shrined  itself  in  her  pure  heart. 

*  *  *  *  #  * 

Five  years  had  passed,  and  a  new  house  was  going  up  in  Rye- 
field.  A  stranger  had  purchased  the  ground,  the  most  beautiful 
site  in  the  village.  Then  an  architect  arrived  with  his  troops 
of  workmen,  and  soon  the  imposing  structure  rose  up  fair  and 
stately.  The  grounds  in  the  neighborhood  were  laid  out  with 
exquisite  taste,  and  everything  was  being  arranged  and  beauti 
fied  according  to  the  directions  of  its  invisible  owner. 

At  last  came  a  rumor  that  Edward  Gray,  who  had  been 
spending  some  time  in  Europe,  had  returned,  and  was  become 
the  proprietor  of  the  grove,  and  its  new  edifice. 

"  Of  course  he  must  have  got  married,"  said  the  gossips ;  "  he 
never  would  think  of  taking  that  trouble  for  himself,  all  alone." 

For  once  it  seemed  that  the  gossips  were  right ;  for,  as  soon 
as  the  house  and  its  appurtenances  were  completed,  a  handsome 
travelling-carriage  drove  through  the  village,  and  stopped  at  the 
grove.  From  this  same  travelling-carriage  alighted  our  old 
friend  Edward  Gray,  and  after  him  a  lady,  young,  slight,  and, 
the  gossips  said,  beautiful. 

For  my  own  part,  I  thought  of  all  the  happiness  at  the  grove 
without  either  pleasure  or  envy,  for  I  was  heartily  provoked 
with  Edward. 


SWEET   ELLEN    ADAIR.  203 

True,  Ellen  Adair  had  refused  to  marry  him  ;  but  why  could 
he  not  have  asked  her  again  —  why  could  he  not  have  waited  ? 

I  was  brooding  these  things  in  my  heart,  about  a  week  after 
the  family  had  become  domesticated,  when  Ellen  herself  came 
in. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  grove  yet  ?  "  was  her  first  inquiry. 

"  No,  nor  I  don't  want  to.  I  don't  like  Edward  Gray,  now ; 
and,  as  for  his  upstart  wife,  I  don't  want  to  see  her !  " 

"  Why,  Louise,  are  you  quite  sure  you  are  in  your  senses  ?  " 
said  Ellen,  quietly,  as  she  laid  her  hand  upon  my  brow.  "  I 
am  going  to  call  on  Mrs.  Gray,"  she  continued,  "  and  you  must 
go  and  get  your  bonnet  and  come  with  me.  It 's  a  civility  we 
owe  to  strangers  ;  and,  beside,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Louise, 
I  do  want  to  see  what  kind  of  a  person  Edward  Gray  has  found 
to  love." 

I  know  not  what  sort  of  spell  the  girl  exercised  over  me  with 
her  "  come  and  go,"  but,  really,  it  soon  began  to  seem  a  neces 
sary  piece  of  civility,  and  a  very  desirable  thing,  to  call  on  the 
Grays,  and  forthwith  I  got  ready  and  went.  4 

Ellen  was  looking  beautifully,  that  afternoon.  She  wore  a  thin 
white  hat,  with,  pale  pink  flowers  and  ribbons,  a  dainty  white 
muslin  dress,  and  a  delicate  rose-colored  scarf. 

She  was  "  fair  and  beautiful "  to  look  upon,  as  the  Scotch, 
people  say ;  and  I  was  wondering,  as  she  tripped  up  the  grav 
elled  walk,  whether  the  sight  of  that  sweet  face  would  not  still 
have  power  to  make  Edward  Gray's  matrimonial  heart  ache. 

A  servant  conducted  us  into  the  pleasant  parlor.  It  was 
indeed  arranged  with  exquisite  taste  —  books,  and  pictures,  and 
rare  objects  of  vertn  brought  from  beyond  the  sea,  were  scat- 


204  SWEET   ELLEN  ADAIR. 

tered  round  in  luxurious  profusion,  while  the  other  appointments 
of  the  room  were  gorgeous  enough  for  the  boudoir  of  a  countess. 
"And  all  this  might  have  been  Ellen's !"  thought  I,  as  I  sur 
veyed  it. 

Edward  Gray  entered  first.  He  was  indeed  handsomer  than 
ever,  and  I  trembled  for  the  effect  of  his  appearance  on  Ellen. 
She  rose  as  he  entered  the  room,  but  immediately  sat  down 
again.  He  approached  her  cordially,  with  an  extended  hand. 

"  Miss  Adair,"  he  remarked,  "  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  wel 
come  you  to  our  new  home." 

"  And  it  gives  me  pleasure,  Mr.  Gray,"  she  replied,  "  to 
welcome  you  to  Ryefield." 

And  this  was  all.  Thus  they  met  —  two  persons  who  had 
once  been  all  the  world  to  each  other.  I  knew  that  Nellie  loved 
him  still,  but  for  Edward  Gray  I  could  not  answer. 

Very  soon  Mrs.  Gray  entered.  The  character  of  her  face  was 
not  sufficiently  exalted  to  be  called  beautiful,  but  she  was  an 
extremely  pretty  person.  She  was  a  blonde,  with  luxuriant 
hair,  and  large,  clear  blue  eyes,  with  a  smile  in  them.  Her 
slight  figure  was  arrayed  in  the  most  elegant  and  tasteful  man 
ner,  and,  altogether,  she  was  as  nice  a  little  wife  as  one  need 
wish  to  see. 

She  welcomed  us  both  cordially,  remarking  to  me,  "  I 
have  often  heard  my  husband  speak  of  you,  Miss  Cleveland;  but 
I  don't  remember  to  have  heard  Miss  Adair's  name  before. 
Perhaps"  (turning  to  Ellen)  "you  were  not  in  town  when  my 
husband  was  here  before  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,"  said  I,  simply,  "  surely  Ellen  was  in  town,  but 


SWEET   ELLEN   ADAIR.  205 

perhaps  Mr.  Gray  mentioned  me  more  especially,  because  my 
brother  Frank  was  his  most  intimate  friend." 

Our  call,  though  a  brief  one,  was  sufficient  to  assure  me  that 
there  was  no  intellectual  sympathy  between  the  talented,  bril 
liant  Edward  Gray,  and  his  very  nice  little  wife ;  and  to  convince 
me,  also,  that  Ellen  Adair  was  not  quite  forgotten.  After  many 
years,  Edward  told  me  the  particulars  of  his  marriage. 

It  seems,  he  had  acquired  his  immense  fortune  by  a  successful 
discovery  which  he  patented  in  England,  soon  after  he  left 
Ryefield ;  and  then,  being  desirous  of  making  the  tour  of  the  con 
tinent  before  his  return,  he  had  joined  the  party  of  an  English 
nobleman,  whose  wife  was  an  American.  The  lady's  sister,  Miss 
Maria  Clinton,  had  been  of  the  party,  and  very  soon  he  dis 
covered  that  his  polite  attentions  to  the  younger  lady  had  awak 
ened  a  sentiment  warmer  than  friendship  in  his  behalf. 

At  first,  this  perplexed  him ;  then  it  nattered  him,  and  soothed 
the  vanity  wounded  by  Ellen  Adair's  rejection ;  and  so,  before  he 
was  aware  of  it,  he  found  himself  the  husband  of  Maria  Clinton. 
But  he  awoke  from  the  honeymoon  to  discover  a  want  in  his 
heart  which  she  could  not  satisfy,  a  love  she  had  never  yet  been 
able  to  awaken.  Still  would  the  sweet  face  of  Ellen  Adair 
haunt  his  slumbers ;  still  he  awoke  to  sigh  over  a  love  his  con 
science  condemned,  and  his  judgment  pronounced  hopeless. 

I  know  not  by  what  strange  fate  he  was  urged  on,  when  he 
came  to  Ryefield,  and  fixed  his  residence  so  near  the  object  of  his 
hopeless  love.  For  her,  at  least,  his  coming  was  not  well.  I 
was  right  in  thinking  she  could  not  endure  to  see  him  the  hus 
band  of  another. 

From  the  day  on  which  we  called  at  the  grove,  she  commenced 
18 


206  SWEET  ELLEN   ADAIR. 

to  pine ;  and,  while  the  summer  days  grew  long  and  pleasant,  her 
step  became  more  and  more  feeble,  and  her  cheek  paler. 

It  was  late  in  an  August  afternoon,  the  sun  was  just  sinking, 
and  his  infinite  glory  streamed  over  the  broad  earth,  and  through 
the  blinds,  into  the  windows,  and  over  the  carpet  of  Ellen 
Adair's  pleasant  room. 

Ellen  herself  was  sitting  in  a  high-backed  chair,  bolstered  up 
by  pillows,  watching  the  clouds ;  and  when  the  last  one  faded 
from  the  west,  and  the  stars  began  to  come  out  in  the  clear 
blue,  she  turned  to  me,  and  said,  solemnly, 

"  Louise,  I  have  seen  the  sun  go  down  and  the  stars  rise  for 
the  last  time !  "  There  was  nothing  mournful  in  her  voice ;  it 
was  only  the  certainty,  and  the  shadow  of  death,  that  frightened 
me.  Ellen's  face  Icroked  calm  and  sweet,  as  usual,  and  there  was 
no  tremor  in  her  clear  voice. 

"  Must  you  go  to-night,  darling  ?  "  I  whispered,  mournfully. 

"  Yes,  Louise,  and,  were  it  not  that  I  don't  like  to  leave  you,  I 
should  be  very  thankful.  While  here  I  had  to  struggle  fiercely  with 
a  terrible  sin,  —  the  temptation  to  love  Edward  Gray,  now  that  he 
was  the  husband  of  another.  Thank  God,  Louise,  that  this  cup 
is  about  to  pass  from  me ;  for  it  will  not  be  wrong  to  look  down 
on  him  from  heaven  and  love  him." 

I  stole  from  the  room,  as  she  ceased  speaking,  and  taking  a 
card,  I  wrote  hurriedly  on  the  back  of  it : 

"  EDWARD  GRAY  :  Ellen  Adair  is  ill  —  dying.  She  will  die 
to-night.  ..  I  do  not  say  if  you  ever  loved  her,  for  I  know  you 
did,  but,  if  you  love  her  now,  come  to  us  directly. 

•'.LOUISE  CLEVELAND." 


SWEET   ELLEN   ADAIR.  207 

I  sent  this  note  by  the  errand-boy,  and  then  reentered  Ellen's 
room,  without  telling  her  anything  of  the  proceeding.  In  five 
minutes  Edward  Gray  stood  by  her  bed-side,  for  we  had  lain  her 
down  on  her  couch  by  the  window.  Going  up  to  her,  he  knelt 
down  by  her  side,  and,  folding  her  in  his  arms,  he  exclaimed, 

"  0,  Ellen,  my  first,  my  only  love ! "  For  a  moment  she 
shrank  from  his  embrace,  but  he  only  held  her  the  more 
firmly. 

"  Ellen,"  he  said,  "  darling  Ellen,  you  shall  rest  here  now ; 
you  are  dying,  and  it  is  not  wrong.  I  will  hold  you  thus,  once 
in  this  life.  You  shall  die  upon  my  bosom  !  0,  Ellen,  how  I 
have  loved  you!  God  in  heaven  knows  that,  from  the  first 
moment  I  ever  saw  you,  you  have  been  the  very  idol  of  my  being. 
It  is  true,  I  called  another  wife.  I  took  another  to  my  home 
and  heart ;  but  it  was  for  her  sake,  not  for  mine,  and  when  I  did 
not  know  you  had  ever  loved  me* 

"  0,  Ellen,  my  soul's  darling !  will  you  not  be  mine  in  heaven  ? 
Thank  God  with  me,  my  beautiful,  that  there  is  death,  there  is 
heaven ! " 

And  there  he  sat  all  this  time,  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  as  she 
had  never  dared  to  hope  he  would  clasp  her  on  earth.  The  past 
was  forgotten,  —  the  long,  bitter,  suffering  past,  — in  the  ecstasy 
of  that  one  hour,  snatched,  as  it  were,  from  the  very  jaws  of 
death. 

Silently,  for  a  long  time,  Ellen  lay  there,  with  her  head  upon 
his  bosom.  At  length  she  said,  with  a  faltering  voice,  "  Glory 
be  to  God  on  high !  God  is  good,  —  is  he  not,  Edward? — to  give 
us  one  hour  like  this,  even  though  it  must  be  death  which  hallows 
it!" 


208  SWEET   ELLEN   ADAIR. 

Then,  for  a  long  time,  there  was  once  more  silence  between 
us  in  that  chamber  of  death ;  and  once  more  Ellen  broke  it. 

"  Come  and  kiss  me,  Louise,"  she  said ;  and  I  pressed  my  lips 
to  hers.  "  You  have  been  very  dear  to  me,  my  more  than  sister; 
and  God  will  bless  you  for  all  your  love. 

"  My  father,"  and  she  turned  her  eyes  on  the  old  man,  seated, 
in  his  agony,  at  the  bed's  foot,  —  "  my  father,  will  you  not  kiss 
your  motherless  child,  and  bless  her  ?  " 

Fondly  the  father  pressed  his  lips  to  her  brow,  and  bade  God 
be  merciful  unto  her  and  bless  her  in  her  last  agony,  even  as  she 
had  blessed  him,  all  the  days  of  her  life.  Then  she  turned  to  her 
lover,  and,  resting  her  head  still  closer  on  his  bosom,  she  whis 
pered, 

"  Edward,  I  am  all  yours  now,  until  I  am  summoned  by  our 
Father  and  our  God.  He  is  our  God,  is  n't  he,  Edward  ?  Strive, 
for  my  sake,  dearest,  to  put  all  your  faith  in  him,  to  pray  for  his 
grace,  and  finally  to  meet  me  in  heaven.  But  I  can't  talk  any 
more,  I  am  faint.  Pray  for  strength,  dearest.  Kiss  me 
once  !  "  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Edward  Gray  pressed 
his  lips  to  those  of  the  idol  of  his  youth,  the  worship  of  his  man 
hood.  But  he  kissed  the  dead,  for  Ellen's  lips  were  cold  and 
stiff. 

So  soon,  so  silently,  had  her  spirit  passed  from  earth  to  heaven, 
while  the  light  was  still  kindling  in  her  eyes,  and  the  sweet  smile 
still  beaming  about  her  lips. 

We  laid  her  to  rest  in  a  quiet,  blessed  spot,  where  the  grass  is 
green,  and  the  brook  murmurs  by  her,  ever  and  forever,  soothing 
her  sleep  with  its  melody.  The  days  of  her  father  were  long 
ago  numbered,  and  he,  too,  sleeps  beside  his  Ellen. 


SWEET   ELLEN    ADAIR.  209 

Edward  Gray  was  a  kind,  devoted  husband,  but  a  year  haa 
passed  since  his  wife  sunk  into  her  grave ;  and,  sitting  beside 
me  in  a  pleasant  nook,  not  many  days  ago,  he  told  me,  for 
the  first  time,  of  his  relations  with  Maria,  his  motives  in  mar 
rying,  .amd  the  sacred  altar  in  his  heart,  where  Ellen's  name  had 
been  always  written,  and  where  no  eyes,  save  hers,  had  ever 
gazed. 

But  that  is  past.  I  am  an  old  woman  now,  and  Edward  Gray 
also  will  soon  be  gathered  to  his  fathers.  There  will  be  other 
graves,  beside  Ellen's  and  that  of  my  little  brother ;  and  over 
them  all  will  the  sunshine  rest,  the  stars  smile,  the  willows  wave, 
and  the  green  trees  nod. 

We  have  loved  in  life,  and  in  death  we  will  not  be  divided. 
18* 


A  WALK  IN   MAY-TIME. 


WE  wandered  by  the  burnside, 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
When  the  leaflets  and  the  blossoms 

Were  keeping  holiday  ; 
When  the  cowslips  starred  the  meadows, 

And  the  alders  fringed  the  brook, 
And  the  early  violets  lifted 

To  the  skies  a  loving  look ; 
And  the  wild  choke-cherry  blossoms 

You  braided  in  my  hair, 
Till  my  cheek  with  blushes  deepened, 

As  you  said  that  I  was  fair ! 
And  I  thought  that  sweet  spring  sunshine 

Jacob's  ladder  might  have  been, 
On  which  angels  clomb  to  heaven, 

And  came  down  again  to  men  ; 
For  the  breezes  breathed  but  incense, 

And  the  streamlet  breathed  but  prayer, 
And  a  misty  gold  went  floating 

On  the  fragrant  spring-time  air  ; 
And  I  surely  thought  your  kisses 

Were  like  blessings  from  the  skies, 
And  a  thousand  visions  slumbered 

In  your  blue  and  dreamy  eyes  ! 


A   WALK   IN   MAY-TIME.  211 

But  the  day  blew  slowly  over 

With  a  noise  of  wind  and  rain  ; 
To  your  eyes  there  came  a  shadow, 

To  my  heart  there  came  a  pain  ; 
And  the  streamlet  'gan  to  dimple ;  — 

Was  it  with  some  angel's  tears, 
Who  sat  weeping,  in  the  silence, 

O'er  the  changes  of  the  years  ? 
There  shall  come  another  May-time  ; 

By  the  burnside  I  shall  walk, 
Hearing  no  glad  step  beside  me, 

And  no  sound  of  pleasant  talk ; 
Gone  will  be  the  breathing  fragrance, 

And  the  music  in  the  air, 
As  the  wild  choke-cherry  blossoms 

Will  be  withered  from  my  hair. 
Never  more,  like  Jacob's  ladder, 

Will  the  sunshine  seem  to  fall ; 
'T  will  be  clomb  by  ghosts  and  spectres, 

Bearing  up  a  funeral  pall ; 
But  my  life  is  blowing  over, 

With  a  noise  of  wind  and  rain, — 
I  shall  sleep  the  death-sleep  calmly, 

And  my  heart  will  cease  from  pain. 


HUSH! 


HUSH  !  she  is  dying !  The  sunlight  streams  through  the  plate- 
glass  windows,  the  room  is  fragrant  with  the  sweet  breath  of 
southern  flowers,  - — large;  milk-white  African  lilies,  roses  a  night 
ingale  might  stoop  to  worship,  cape  jasmines,  and  camellias 
with  their  large,  glossy  leaves. 

Through  the  open  casement  steals  the  faint,  musical  tinkle  of 
playing  fountains  ;  and  the  light,  tempered  pleasantly  by  rose- 
curtains,  kindles  up  gorgeous  old  paintings  with  a  halo  bright  as 
a  rainbow.  It  is  as  if  fresher  sunshine  was  falling  earthward  on 
the  bower  of  beauty. 

The  canary  sings  in  his  gilded  cage,  —  her  canary,  —  and  the 
mocking-bird  raises  his  clear  note  higher  and  higher  on  the  per 
fumed  air. 

Why  do  you  clench  your  hand  till  the  nails  draw  the  rich 
rosy  blood  through  the  quivering  skin?  Why  do  you  grind 
your  teeth  together,  and  hiss  between,  that  one  word,  hush  ?  It  'a 
a  beautiful  home,  I  'm  sure  ;  and  that  lady,  with  her  head  upon 
your  bosom,  is  fair  as  any  dream-vision  of  the  painter. 

Surely  nothing  could  be  purer  than  that  broad,  high  brow ; 
nothing  brighter  than  those  sunny  curls  ! 

And  she  loves  you,  too  !  Ah,  yes,  any  one  could  read  that,  in 
the  deep  violet  eyes  raised  so  tenderly  to  your  own.  Ah !  that 
is  it,  —  your  young  wife  loves  you ! 


HUSH  ;  213 

She  linked  to  yours  the  existence  of  an  angel,  when  she  knelt 
beside  you  at  the  marriage  altar. 

For  twelve  long,  golden  months,  an  angel  has  walked  or  sat 
by  your  side,  or  slept  in  your  bosom. 

You  knew  it !  No  mortal  woman  ever  made  your  heart  bow 
before  a  purity  so  divine ! 

No  earthly  embrace  ever  so  filled  your  soul  with  the  glory 
from  beyond  the  stars ;  no  earthly  smile  ever  shone  so  unchang 
ingly  above  all  such  noisome  things  as  you  earth-worms  call  care 
and  trouble.  She  is  an  angel,  and  other  angels  have  been  sing 
ing  to  her  in  the  long  days  of  this  pleasant  June-time. 

"  HUSH  !  "  you  say,  but  you  cannot  shut  out  the  anthem-notes 
of  heaven  from  those  unsealed  ears !  Louder,  higher  swell  the 
hymns  of  the  seraphs,  —  brighter  grows  the  smile  round  your 
young  wife's  lips. 

"Charles,"  she  whispers,  "dearest,  I'm  almost  home;  you 
will  come  by  and  by,  and  I  am  going  to  ask  God  to  bless  you  !  " 
But  you  cannot  bear  it;  you  turn  away,  and  the  big  tears 
gather  in  the  violet  eyes. 

You  have  held  her  there  on  your  bosom  all  day  —  all  night ; 
are  you  tired  ?  —  buj  you  don't  answer.  Closer,  closer  you  clasp 
the  slight,  fair  figure ;  painfully  you  press  your  lips  to  the  cold 
brow ;  —  Carrie  is  dead  ! 

What  is  it  to  you  that  the  sunshine  is  bright  ?  what  that  its 
rays  fall  on  broad  lands  —  your  lands  ?  what  is  it,  now  that  she 
cau  walk  on  them  no  more  ?  And  what  is  death  —  her  death  ? 
Few  people  knew  her ;  no  nation  will  raise  a  monument  to  her 
memory !  But  she  was  yours,  —  your  all ! 


214  HUSH  ! 

No,  —  yours  and  God's ;  and  your  year  of  joy  is  over,  and  she 
rests  on  His  bosom  now,  in  heaven. 

They  haye  dug  a  grave  for  her ;  spring-flowers  brighten  over 
it,  and  the  green  grass  smiles  with  daisies  and  violets.  You  go 
there  and  sigh  and  pray,  and  ask  God  if  you,  too,  may  go 
home  ;  and,  when  no  answer  comes,  your  proud  heart  rises  up  in 
bitterness,  and,  with  the  bold,  wicked  words  upon  your  tongue, 
you  pause,  —  for  your  guardian  angel  looks  down  from  heaven, 
and  whispers,  "  Hush  !  " 


Hush !  she  is  praying  !  There  is  no  carpet  upon  the  floor,  no 
fragrance  of  flowers  in  the  comfortless  room,  and  the  sun's 
broad  glare  falls  all  untempered  upon  the  rough  boards  and  the 
heap  of  straw  in  the  corner. 

She  is  beautiful,  that  young  girl  who  kneels  t&ere.  Her  face 
would  have  been  a  glorious  study  for  one  of  Greutze's  pale,  spir 
itual  Madonnas.  Her  attitude  —  the  upraised  face,  the  clasped 
hands,  the  long,  black  hair  streaming  backward  —  might  have 
been  a  model  for  Praxiteles,  as  she  kneels  there,  in  that  glaring, 
uncomfortable  room,  by  the  pallet  of  stra^  in  the  comfortless 
corner. 

"Hush!"  You  should  hear  her  prayer;  it  is  not  a  model 
prayer ;  it  is  not  so  much  the  giving  thanks  for  the  blessings 
showered  upon  her  lot;  not  a  petition  put  up  half-falteringly  for 
friend  or  lover ;  —  no,  it  is  the  near  approach  to  a  great  and 
mighty  Spirit ! 

"Father,"  it  pleads,  "  0,  Father,  save  me  from  myself!" 
There  is  a  crushing  agony  in  the  tone,  and  the  big  tears  roll 


HUSH  :  215 

down  from  her  pale  ckceks,  and  fall  on  the  bare  floor  like  round, 
glittering  diamonds.  Not  always  had  she  been  thus  desolate. 

Her  father  —  a  proud,  sensitive,  drea-my  man,  better  fitted  for 
a  paet  than  a  merchant  —  had  been  unfortunate  in  his  specula 
tions,  and  his  creditors  had  turned  him  beggared  from  the  fair 
home  he  had  built  fbr  his  dead  wife's  child  ! 

"  Brutes,  fiends !  "  do  you  say  ?  Hush  !  They  were  safe  men, 
—  their  notes  were  good  on  Wall-street ;  true  men,  —  they  car- 
'ried  all  their  threats  into  execution ;  pious  men,  —  they  went  to 
church  every  Sunday,  and  carrie "  prayer-books  clasped  with  gold 
and  bound  in  velvet;  just  men,  —  Daniels  come  to  judgment, — 
they  only  took  their  own.  What  was  it  to  them  whether  Paul 
Clifford  starved,  or  his  daughter  sank  to  a  ruin  worse  than  death? 
They  did  n't  see  why  people  would  get  into  such  scrapes,  and 
then  look  to  honest  people  to  help  them  out;  they  never  got 
into  any, — not  &ey !  0,  they  were  good  men,  were  Paul  Clif 
ford's  creditors ! 

Dreadfully  shocked  they  were,  when  the  proud,  sensitive  poet- 
merchant  put  an  end  to  an  existence  misfortune  had  rendered 
torture.  They  would  n't  let  Blanche  Clifford  teach  music  in  their 
families,  —  not  they  !  Why,  she  might  turn  out  as  bad  as  her 
father. 

This  very  day  Blanche  had  been  to  the  chief  of  them,  and 

* 

pleaded  for  work,  in  vain,  with  the  tears  streaming  from  her  beau 
tiful  eyes.  This  day  his  son,  who  had  been  her  own  betrothed, 
had  whispered  to  her  of  flight  with  him,  —  of  a  bridal  where 
their  own  hearts  should  be  the  priests ;  and  Blanche,  loving  him 
still,  as  woman  loves  but  once,  had  felt  all  her  soul  thrill  to  the 
strange  power  of  his  brilliant  words,  as  he  whispered  of  a  fair 


216  HUSH ! 

southern  home,  till  she  seemed  to  see  the  glorious  sunshine  steep 
ing  southern  flowers  and  crimsoning  rich  clusters  of  southern 
fruit ;  and  then,  remembering  that  she  could  not  be  his  wife,  had 
put  her  fingers  in  her  ears,  and  ran  for  more  than  life,  — for  the 
hope  of  heaven ! 

This  day,  as  she  knelt,  her  soul  passed  forth  from  the  weary 
scene  of  misery  and  starvation,  and  her  fair  form  was  left 
stark,  and  stiff,  and  cold,  in  the  hot  glare  of  the  June  sunshine. 

Truly,  you  say,  are  God's  judgments  in  this  world  unequal ! 
Be  silent. 

There  will  be  a  judgment  at  the  day  of  judgment;  and  mortal 
eyes  can  poorly  read  the  counsels  of  the  Infinite  and  Unchange 
able.— HUSH! 


"AN  EMPTY  POCKET'S  THE  WORST 
OE  CRIMES." 


To  be  sure !  Nothing  at  all  like  it !  A  man  may  get  his 
money  in  whatever  way  he  pleases ;  be  guilty  of  usury,  extor 
tion,  anything,  so  that  his  coat  is  fine  and  his  boots  glossy. 

I  tell  you  what, — there  is  nothing  like  velvet  to  sanctify  religion. 
Now,  any  common-sense  individual  can't  help  seeing  that  there  's 
no  possibility  of  John  the  coachman,  who  stands  on  the  church- 
steps  holding  the  horses  and  congealing  in  his  new  livery,  being 
in  as  religious  a  frame  of  mind  as  his  master,  who  sits  in  his 
comfortable,  damask-covered  pew,  kneels  on  his  embroidered  has 
sock,  and  says  amen  with  such  an  unction. 

It  would  be  the  death  of  me  even  to  suggest  that  John  the 
coachman  gets  just  about  as  good  a  knowledge  of  the  sermon  as 
his  master ;  that  the  cold,  and  the  horses,  and  the  handsome 
lady's  maid  over  the  way,  don't  any  more  occupy  his  attention 
than  the  rise  in  stocks,  the  prosperity  of  his  children,  and  the 
sense  of  his  position  as  a  family-man,  occupy  John  the  coach 
man's  master,  kneeling  on  the  hassock,  or  sitting  in  his  cush 
ioned  pew.  I  must  confess  one  question  does  pop  into  my  head, 
rather  provokingly,  — whether  there  is  one  Gospel  for  the  poor 
and  another  for  the  rich, — whether  it  is  a  Christian  duty  for 
John's  master  to  go  to  church,  and  John  to  stay  outside. 
19 


218  "  AN   EMPTY   POCKET  *S   THE   WORST   OP    CRIMES." 

I  should  like  so  much  to  know  which  set  that  passage  was 
meant  for  where  it  says,  "  Repent,  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
is  at  hand." 

I  guess  that  means  the  poor  folks.  It  can't  be  that  rich  people 
have  any  such  disagreeable  duties  to  perform  as  faith  and  repent 
ance. 

Sackcloth  and  ashes  would  n't  look  well  outside  of  velvet  and 
embroidery.  I  do  believe  rich  folks  ought  to  raise  John's  salary, 
though,  when,  besides  standing  out  in  the  cold  till  the  tip-ends  of 
his  fingers  get  irreligiously  lukewarm,  he  has  to  do  all  their 
repenting  for  them 


WOOED  AND  WON. 


"Div  me  just  a  little  piece  of  b'ead,  dear  mamma  !  P'east, 
dear  mamma,  and  baby  will  be  so  good !  Baby  hundry  —  baby 
so  hundry  —  no  b'ead  so  Ion'  time  !  P'ease  div  baby  a  little  !  " 

"  0,  God,  it  is  too  much ! "  and  Kathleen  threw  down  her 
work,  already  stained  with  tears,  and  caught  her  famished  child 
to  her  heart.  Time  was  when  Kathleen  had  never  known  want, 
—  when  her  little  foot  sank  half-buried  in  rich  carpets,  when 
her  delicate  form  reclined  on  velvet  and  down,  and  her  fastidious 
taste  was  pampered  by  viands  the  rarest  and  most  costly.  Then 
there  was  a  broad,  strong  breast  for  Kathleen  to  rest  upon,  a 
fond  arm  to  shelter  her,  and  a  voice  which  called  her,  many  times 
every  day,  "  Kate,  my  life's  star,  my  darling !  " 

But  he  had  died,  —  died  with  his  head  upon  her  bosom ;  and 
she  had  seen  the  sod  piled  above  his  breast,  and  turned  away, 
a  stricken,  lonely  woman,  clasping  her  little  Winnie  to  her  heart. 
Then  came  ruthless  creditors,  whose  rights  she  never  dared 
to  question,  and  swept  away  from  her  her  fair  home,  and  even 
the  treasured  bridal  tokens  given  her  by  the  friends  of  her  own 
orphan  childhood.  Kathleen  was  destitute.  Those  who  had 
courted  her  society  of  old  —  who  would  have  given  a  small  for 
tune  to  be  invited  to  her  parties,  or  take  an  airing  in  her  car 
riage  —  swept  by  her  now  on  the  other  side.  Only  one  friend 
remained.  He  was  an  old  man,  rich  and  influential,  one 


220  WOOED   AND    WON. 

who  had  sought  to  gain  her  hand  before  she  had  given  it  to 
Harry,  and  who  renewed  his  offer  now,  and  still  in  vain.  She 
had  buried  her  heart,  she  said,  in  Harry's  grave,  and  she  should 
die  if  she  could  not  be  true  to  his  memory.  0,  how  wearily  had 
toiled  those  fingers,  unused  to  labor  !  and  still  her  scanty  pittance 
could  not  procure  the  little  Winnie  bread,  and  still  the  hunger- 
fiend  was  gnawing  at  her  own  vitals. 

She  strained  the  little  one  to  her  bursting  heart.  "  Mother 
will  give  Winnie  bread  pretty  soon,  darling,  if  she  has  to  beg  it." 
There  was  a  step  upon  the  stair,  and  the  old  man  entered. 

"  What !  your  child,  Kathleen,  wailing  for  bread  !  That  must 
not  be !  If  you  will  not  be  the  old  man's  wife,  you  must  be 
his  child  ;  —  come  to  my  house,  Katie,  for  I  am  very  desolate. 
I  will  take  care  of  you  and  Winnie,  —  you  shall  never  want 
more." 

"  B'ead,  mamma,  p'ease  div  Winnie  some  b'ead,"  broke  in  the 
infant's  wailing  cry ;  and,  raising  her  dark  eyes  to  heaven, 
Kathleen  made  answer, 

"  I  have  no  right,  Mr.  Green,  to  accept  your  generosity,  with 
out  making  you  some  equivalent.  My  heart  is  dead,  buried 
with  Harry;  but,  if  my  hand,  with  my  esteem,  and  my  unswerving 
truth  and  gratitude,  can  make  you  happy,  you  shall  have  it. 
Harry  will  forgive  me,  when  he  knows  it  is  for  his  child's  sake  I 
do  it." 

And  thus  it  was  that  Kathleen  became  the  old  man's  darling, 
and  the  world  said  she  had  forgotten  and  was  happy.  But  she 
bore  the  same  resemblance  to  the  Kathleen  of  old  as  does  a 
marble  statue  to  the  model  after  which  it  is  chiselled.  Some 
times,  in  her  hours  of  solitude,  she  would  clasp  his  child  to  her 


WOOED   AND   WON.  221 

heart,  and  weep  and  sob  like  an  anguished  woman ;  but  in  society 
no  statue  could  have  been  colder  or  prouder.  Every  one  said 
Mrs.  Green  was  more  beautiful  than  ever,  but  there  seemed  a 
kind  of  mystery  about  her.  No  one  dared  to  address  her  as  of 
old,  and  yet  every  one  sought  her  society.  The  throbbings  of 
her  proud,  true  heart  were  bound  down  with  folds  of  silk  and 
velvet,  and  the  gems  which  glittered  in  her  hair  were  not  colder 
or  brighter  than  her  cold,  proud  eyes.  But  the  world  did  not 
see  her  in  her  hours  of  lonely  anguish.  They  could  not  share 
her  lonely  vigils,  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  cross ;  or  know  how 
sweet  was  the  release,  when  the  kiss  of  the  death-angel  froze  the 
smile  upon  her  lips. 

19* 


OUR  LADY  UNA. 


LADY  UNA,  pure  and  saint-like, 

"Wondrous  mother,  perfect  wife  ! 
O'er  my  heart  there  falls  a  shadow, 

From  the  deep  calm  of  thy  life. 
And  I  bow  my  head  in  homage 

To  thy  matron  beauty  fair, 
For  I  know  some  angel  braided 

Back  the  dark  waves  of  thy  hair. 

Surely  seraphs,  straying  outward, 
Underneath  the  stars  at  night, 

Kissed  thy  lips  and  forehead,  lingering 
With  a  thrill  of  deep  delight ; 

Leaving  there  a  peace  so  holy, 
Mortal  hearts  grow  hushed  in  awe 

At  thy  wisdom  pure  and  lowly, 

Type  of  God's  most  perfect  law. 

/ 
Lady  Una,  child-like  kneeling, 

At  thy  feet  I  breathe  a  prayer,  — 
Let  but  once  thy  hands  in  blessing 

Gently  fall  upon  my  hair  ; 
So  shall  I,  who  blindly  traverse 

Paths  which  angel-feet  have  trod, 
Sometimes  see  from  far  the  glory 

Of  the  far-off  home  of  God. 


VALERIE. 

"  I  feel  my  soul  drawn  unto  thee, 
Strangely,  and  strongly,  and  more  and  more, 
As  to  one  I  have  known  and  loved  before  ; 

For  every  soul  is  akin  to  me,  that  dwells  in  the  land  of  mystery." 

GOLDEN  LEGEND. 

"  COME  to  me !     Come  to  me ! " 

It  was  the  third  night  I  had  heard  that  summons  in  my  sleep, 
and  awoke  to  find  a  cold  sweat  on  my  brow,  and  a  chilliness  as 
of  death  in  my  limbs.  The  third  night,  and  I  dared  not  disre 
gard  it  longer.  I  knew  that  it  was  the  voice  of  Yalerie;  I 
knew  that  those  were  the  pale  hands  of  my  beloved  stretched 
out  to  me  thus  imploringly ;  I  knew  that  those  were  her  be 
seeching  eyes  looking  into  mine  from  the  far  distance.  But  the 
way  was  long.  I  had  not  met  Valerie  for  years ;  and  she  was 
living  in  a  stately  castle,  many  thousand  miles  away.  Between 
us  were  high  mountains  and  boiling  waves,  and  many  a  league 
of  torrid  deserts.  The  second  night,  when  the  voice  called  me,  I 
had  made  answer, 

"  Wherefore  dost  thou  summon  me,  O  restless  spirit,  suffer 
ing  me  not  to  slumber  ?  The  way  is  long,  and,  lo  !  I  am  weak 
and  helpless !  "  But  still  the  answer  was,  "  Come  to  me  !  come 
to  me  !  "  and  the  third  morning  I  started. 

I  crossed  many  a  rapid  stream,  many  a  dreary  waste ;  and 
every  night,  when  I  lay  down  to  rest,  still  sounded  that  far-off 
voice  in  my  ear,  hurrying,  pleading,  beseeching,  —  "  Come  to 


224  VALEEIE. 

me !  "  I  said  it  was  years  since  I  had  met  Valerie.  When  I 
was  a  boy  scarcely  yet  fifteen,  I  was  the  pupil  of  a  far-famed 
sage,  and  in  his  house  I  first  saw  my  beloved.  She,  too,  was 
there,  from  a  great  distance.  She  was  three  years  my  senior, 
and  at  first  I  only  dared  to  gaze  timidly  into  the  mysterious 
depths  of  her  eyes.  She  was  always  dressed  in  black,  with  her 
heavy  black  hair  pushed  off  her  broad,  intellectual  forehead,  and 
lying  round  her  pale  cheeks  like  shadows  of  midnight.  I  used 
to  look  all  day  into  her  great  eyes ;  and  at  night  I  would  see  her 
in  my  dreams,  her  white,  still  face  set  in  its  night  of  hair. 

I  don't  know  how  it  was  that  I  ever  dared  to  speak  to  her  of 
love,  but  I  suppose  I  obeyed  the  voice  of  my  fate.  The  hour  came, 
and  I  spoke.  Valerie  threw  herself  into  my  arms.  There  was 
no  attempt  at  disguise  or  concealment.  In  that  faint,  sweet  voice, 
which  always  sounded  to  my  ear  like  music  out  of  grave-yards, 
she  whispered,  as  she  laid  her  soft  lips  to  my  cheek,  "  Paul,  I 
love  you !  —  I  am  yours  now  and  forever."  And  never,  surely, 
were  vows  of  love  breathed  by  truer  lips.  Valerie  was  mine. 

We  talked  often  of  that  world  of  spirits  lying  above  us  and 
around  us  —  of  the  power  of  the  immortal,  and  the  strength  of 
the  human  will.  "  There  is  no  such  thing  as  death,"  said  Valerie, 
one  day.  "  What  men  call  so,  is  but  the  change,  when  the  tired, 
worn-out  body  needs  rest,  and  the  soul  seeks  another  habitation. 
We  die  when  our  souls  will ;  and  I  shall  only  die  when  you  are 
by  my  side,  for  I  will  give  you  a  double  might.  My  soul  shall 
enter  your  body,  and  dwell  with  yours.  No  matter  how  many 
leagues  of  land  lie  between  us,  —  I  will  summon  you  to  my  side, 
and  my  soul  shall  not  go  forth  until  it  enter  the  tabernacle  of 
yours." 


VALEKIE.  225 

Months  passed  on,  and  we  were  parted.  Valerie  returned  to 
the  castle  of  her  fathers,  and  I  entered  the  lists  at  the  great 
tournament  of  life.  "  Valerie,"  I  had  said,  "  when  years  have 
passed,  and  I  have  won  gold  and  fame,  I  will  seek  you  in  the 
far-off  castle,  and  you  shall  be  my  wife." 

"  Yes,  Paul ;  but  this  frail  body  may  get  weary  sooner  than 
that;  and  then  I  shall  summon  you  to  my  side,  and  you  shall 
bear  away  my  soul  to  help  you  onward.  —  Will  you  come  ?  " 

I  bound  myself  by  a  solemn  oath,  on  the  holy  Evangels,  and 
we  parted,  —  Valerie  stretching  toward  me  ever  and  forever  her 
pale  hands,  and  turning  on  mine  her  great  eyes,  streaming  with 
tears. 

I  had  gone  forth  into  the  world,  and  fought  manfully  against 
the  spectral  knight,  in  his  death-black  armor,  whom  men  call  Fate. 
I  had  wrested  many  things  from  his  iron  fingers;  and  before  every 
encounter  I  had  said,  "  I  will  win  this,  and  this ;  and,  bearing  its 
price  in  my  hand,  I  will  go  to  Valerie ;  "  and  every  time  my  soul 
had  been  unsatisfied,  and  I  had  waited  till  still  another  good 
gift  should  be  mine,  ere  I  started  on  my  journey. 

But  at  last,  in  the  solemn  winter-midnight,  the  summons  came. 
In  the  solemn  winter-midnight,  the  pale  hands  supplicated  me, 
the  great  eyes  meltedme  with  their  tears,  the  wailing  voicepleaded, 
"  Come  to  me,  come  to  me !  "  and  I  went  forth  on  my  way. 

After  many  days,  I  came  to  a  green  path,  which  led  up 
through  a  thicket  of  roses  to  a  stately  castle;  and  again  I  heard 
the  voice,  coming  from  a  turret  in  the  left  wing  of  the  building. 
The  castle  was  of  dark-gray  stone.  It  had  towers  and  bastions, 

"  With  its  battlements  high  in  the  hush  of  the  air,  and  the  turrets 
thereon." 


226  VALERIE. 

Under  its  windows  lay  sleeping  a  fair  lake,  very  calm  and 
tranquil.  On  its  marge  grew  strange,  flame-colored  flowers, 
shaped  like  living  things ;  and  over  them  fluttered  gorgeous  in 
sects,  red,  green,  and  blue.  I  drew  near  to  the  brink,  and  gazed 
downward ;  and  the  reflection  of  my  own  face  seemed  to  come 
from  very  far  off,  and  I  looked  pale  and  wan,  as  I  had  seen  the 
faces  of  the  dead.  And  then  once  more,  from  the  lofty  turret, 
fell  the  sound  of  that  wailing  voice. 

I  opened  the  ponderous  castle-door,  which  yielded  readily  to 
my  touch,  and  passed  onward  through  a  long  suite  of  rooms. 
They  were  furnished  with  a  cold,  funereal  magnificence.  I  saw 
no  one.  There  was  nothing  to  give  evidence  of  life.  The  car 
pets  on  the  floor  were  rich  and  dark ;  the  hangings  were  of  heavy 
crimson ;  and  the  furniture  of  solid  mahogany,  quaintly  carved 
in  curious  devices,  the  forms  of  griffins  and  monsters.  The 
statues  were  of  persons  already  dead,  cold  and  sepulchral  in  the 
cerements  of  the  grave ;  the  paintings  were  livid  and  ghastly, 
as  of  human  beings  transfixed  in  mortal  agony.  The  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  long  hall  seemed  like  a  hearse ;  and  on  it  stood 
a  vase,  in  the  form  of  a  death's  head,  the  face  upturned  and  the 
wide-open  mouth  filled  with  a  bouquet  of  the  same  flame-colored 
flowers  which  grew  upon  the  margin  of  the  lake.  I  had  time 
for  only  a  passing  glance  at  all  these  things,  as  I  was  hurried  on 
ward,  and  ever  onward,  by  that  beseeching,  resistless  voice.  At 
last  I  came  to  a  narrow,  winding  staircase,  up  which  I  climbed, 
and  before  me  was  a  heavy,  oaken-panelled  door,  slightly  ajar. 
I  pushed  it  open,  and  entered  a  room  which  seemed  a  chamber 
of  mystery.  It  was  hung  with  thick  folds  of  sable  velvet.  It 
had  no  windows,  but  from  a  dome  of  colored  glass  fell  rays  of 


VALERIE.  227 

light,  golden,  and  green,  and  crimson,  chasing  each  other  fantas 
tically  over  the  black  drapery.  Directly  beneath,  and  in  the 
full  radiance  of  white  light  pouring  from  its  very  centre,  where 
all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  were  concentrated  to  one  focus,  stood 
a  lofty  bedstead  of  carved  ebony.  It  formed  the  support  to  a 
couch  of  crimson  velvet,  and  here  reposed  a  female  figure.  The 
long  hair,  black  as  night,  floated  over  the  white  pillows ;  the  great, 
fathomless  eyes  were  wide  open,  with  their  tides  of  light  coming 
and  going.  The  pale  hands  were  outstretched,  and  the  low  voice 
hushed  its  unquiet  wailing  at  last,  and  only  whispered,  "  Paul, 
you  have  come  to  me !  —  life  of  my  life,  I  am  at  rest !  "  The 
weary  leagues  of  torrid  desert,  the  rushing  streams,  and  the 
heaven-crowned  mountains,  were  crossed  at  last !  —  Valerie  was 
in  my  arms ! 

I  had  climbed  upon  the  tessellated  couch,  and  once  more  Vale 
rie's  arms  were  around  my  neck,  her  head  on  my  bosom,  and  I 
held  there  in  my  embrace  that  only  one,  of  all  earth's  daughters, 
to  whose  voice  the  pulses  of  my  soul  could  ever,  in  all  eternity, 
keep  time.  I  held  her  there  for  hours.  Neither  of  us  spoke, 
until  the  sunlight  had  ceased  to  pour  downward  through  the 
stained-glass  dome,  and  the  room  was  only  lighted  by  the  ever 
burning  wax  tapers,  standing  on  the  black  tables,  in  the 
corners. 

"  Paul!  "  said  Valerie,  at  length,  looking  upward;  "  Paul,  do 
you  see  that  star  ?  Is  it  Mars  or  Venus  ?  " 

"  Mars,  my  beloved !  " 

"  Yes,  Paul,  I  thought  so.  It  is  the  star  of  strength,  and 
when  it  sets,  this  poor  body  will  be  worn  out,  and  I  must  leave 
it.  I  have  been  on  a  weary  journey,  my  beloved  !  Many  days 


228  VALERIE. 

ago,  I  left  the  body  lying  here,  and  went  forth  to  summon  you. 
I  have  lived  many  years,  Paul,  since  our  last  meeting  —  many 
more  than  could  be  counted  in  earthly  records.  Do  you  not  know, 
beloved,  the  old  Arabian  secret  of  the  fast  life  ?  Do  you  not 
know  that  every  human  soul,  in  the  first  hour  of  its  incarnation, 
has  a  weird  appointed  it,  according  to  its  strength ;  and  it  may 
do  this  task  quickly,  and  pass  to  another  sphere  of  action,  or  it 
may  linger  slothfully  in  the  body,  like  the  toad  who  slept  a 
thousand  years  in  the  ruins  of  Thebes  ?  I  have  wrought  my 
work  quickly,  Paul ;  and  I  have  sent  for  you,  because,  when  the 
star  of  strength  shall  set,  my  soul,  departing  from  the  flesh,  shall 
dwell  with  yours.  Lift  me  up,  my  beloved,  and  lay  my  head 
just  where  I  can  hear  your  heart  beat  beneath  it.  That  is  it, 
strong,  true  heart ;  now  listen,  and,  while  I  still  may  speak,  you 
shall  hear  the  secrets  of  the  stars." 

And,  holding  her  there,  I  listened.  God  of  the  Hebrews,  is 
there  forgiveness  for  the  idol  worshipper,  who  dies  holding  his 
idol  to  his  breast,  with  his  cold  lips  pressed  to  the  shrine  ?  I 
cannot  answer.  In  that  hour  Valerie  told  me  strange  secrets  of 
nature,  wizard-spells  that  I  dare  not  whisper  over  to  myself  at 
midnight.  Spoken  here,  they  would  raise  the  gray  stones  from 
the  roof,  rive  the  madman's  fetters,  and  lay  chapel  and  tower  in 
ruins.  And,  between  them  all,  Valerie  interrupted  herself  with 
oaths,  and  vows,  and  passionate  cries  of  love,  that  on  other  lips 
than  hers  would  have  been  blasphemy ;  and,  whispered  there, 
with  her  lips  against  my  cheek,  they  seemed  to  scorch  me,  like 
the  wind  blowing  upward  from  the  valley  where  flows  the  bot 
tomless  river  of  Phlegethon.  What  wonder  that  love  so  uttered 
is  unblest  ?  Love  which  raises  before  the  Saviour,  and  his  cross, 


VALERIE.  229 

a  human  idol,  and  hides  the  brow  of  the  Son  of  man  with  the 
tresses  which  o'ersweep  a  mortal  bosom  ? 

*  *  *  *  * 

It  was  morning  ere  the  star  of  strength  sank  in  the  west. 
Valerie  had  lain  for  some  time  silently  watching  it,  and  when 
it  disappeared  she  raised  her  head  in  momentary  strength. 
She  pressed  her  lips  fervently  to  mine,  and  then  the  fire  passed 
from  her  eyes,  the  graceful  head  fell  heavily  back  upon  my 
arm,  the  sweet  mouth  closed,  the  long  lashes  drooped  down 
ward,  and  the  unbound  tresses  floated  over  my  bosom  like  a 
pall.  Valerie  was  what  men  called  dead ;  but  I  knew  my 
beloved  was  living  still,  free  and  happy,  now  that  her  task  of 
life  was  wrought.  I  put  her  gently  from  me,  and  smoothed  the 
pillows  for  her  unconscious  head. 

All  that  day  I  watched  her.  I  sat  motionless  by  her  side, 
while  the  features  grew  more  and  more  rigid,  looking  out  from 
their  frame  of  death-black  hair.  That  night,  at  midnight,  a 
change  came.  All  day  had  my  eyes  been  wide  open, — fixed 
upon  her  face,  —  but,  while  the  bell  was  chiming  twelve,  I  felt 
an  unseen  hand  pass  before  them,  and  they  were  sealed.  Then, 
all  around  me,  I  felt  a  buzzing,  swarming  life.  The  air  was  full 
of  life.  It  was  above  me,  beneath  me,  around  me,  —  life  that 
thrilled  the  blood  in  all  my  veins,  and  quickened  all  my  pulses, 
and  yet  kept  me  silent  and  motionless.  And  then  there  was  a 
shock  which  took  away  my  breath.  The  castle  shook  to  its 
foundations.  The  calm  lake  under  the  windows  burst  its  bounds, 
and  hurried  surging  toward  some  unseen  sea.  The  tapers 
flared  upwards  in  the  corners,  and  I  could  feel  the  room  flooded 
with  a  strange  light.  A  moment,  and  all  was  still.  The 
20 


230  VALEKIE. 

life  had  departed,  the  bell  tolled  one,  and  I  knew  that  Va 
lerie's  soul  had  entered  my  body.  Over  the  corpse  on  the 
carved  ebony  bedstead  had  passed  a  change  too  ghastly  to 
name.  It  was  my  beloved  no  longer.  Valerie  was  in  my 
heart,  and  the  dead  body  there  was  no  longer  aught  but  the 
sister  of  the  worms. 

*  =fc  *  *  % 

We  left  the  castle,  I  and  the  soul  of  Valerie,  and  went  forth 
among  men.  I  believe  they  feared  us ;  they  could  not  compre 
hend  the  strange  might  of  my  two-souled  existence.  They  did 
not  know  that  when  I  laid  my  hand  in  kindness  on  an  old 
friend's  shoulder,  it  was  not  my  will,  but  that  strange,  passion 
ate  soul  of  Valerie,  in  its  wild  strength,  which  flew  at  his  throat 
and  throttled  him.  They  bound  me  with  fetters,  and  put  me  in 
this  strong  fortress ;  and  they  think  they  have  me  safe.  They 
would  start  up  from  their  slumbers  and  tremble,  did  they  but 
know  that  I  am  free  still,  —  that  I  stay  here  only  because  it  is 
my  fate  to  suffer,  and  that  when  the  hour  is  come  I  shall  go 
forth  again,  I  and  the  soul  of  Valerie,  to  dwell  in  the  far-distant 
castle,  whose  western  turrets  rise  up  out  of  the  still  lake,  with 
the  flame-colored  flowers  on  its  margin. 

They  tell  me  I  am  mad !  They  told  me  it  was  not  a  castle 
where  I  found  Valerie,  but  a  stately  tomb.  That  the  furniture 
I  saw  was  grave-stones,  and  the  table  with  its  death's-head  was 
a  hearse  ;  and  that  there  I  found  my  Valerie  dead,  in  the  white 
garments  of  the  grave.  That  I  called  wildly  on  her  name,  and 
watched  there  by  her  side,  with  wide-opened  eyes,  until  at  last 
sleep  came  at  midnight,  and  I  woke  up  raving.  But  I  remem 
bered  once  more  the  voice  which  summoned  me ;  the  weary 


VALERIE. 


231 


journey,  and  the  chamber  of  mystery,  with  its  black  hangings 
and  stained-glass  dome.  Then  knew  I  that  I  was  not  mad.  I 
speak  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness.  Hush  your  murmurs, 
heart  of  mine  !  the  weird  is  almost  over.  Soon  shall  we  go  to 
rest,  I  and  the  soul  of  Valerie,  my  beloved  ! 


JUNE-DAY   DREAMINGS. 


SITTING  on  the  mossy  rock, 

"Whore  the  shepherd  guards  the  flock, 

Where  I  used  to  sit  of  old, 

Weaving  chaplets  manifold 

(Strung  with  Fancy's  threads  of  gold); 

Has  another  tale  been  told. 

Friends,  that  in  other  days 

Roamed  o'er  these  pleasant  ways, 

Far  from  my  side  have  strayed, 

To  some  fair  realm  of  shade  ; 

And  in  these  lonely  hours, 

Girt  round  with  withered  flowers, 

Wherein  my  weary  eye 

Turns  to  the  watching  sky, 

Glances  of  pain, 

Groping  with  outstretched  hands, 
Toward  Death's  shadow-lands, 
They  come,  they  come  again ! 

Not  as  they  came  of  old, 

When  spring-flowers  were  blowing, 
Or  summer  streams  a  flowing  ; 
When  the  very  air  was  humming 
With  the  birds  and  beetle-thrumming ; 

And  the  sunshine's  paly  gold 


JUNE-DAY   DREAMINGS.  233 

Lay  upon  the  velvet  moss, 

Lay  upon  the  road-side  cross, 

Stretching  out  its  kindly  arms 

Like  a  hermit  in  a  grove  of  palms, 

Blessing  dark-browed  maids  who  bend, 

Kneeling,  in  those  groves  of  Ind ! 
There  were  bands  of  laughing  girls, 

With  their  waves  of  sunny  hair, 
"Where  the  snow-drops  gleamed  like  pearls, 

Over  brows  more  purely  fair, — 
With  their  laughter-trilling  lips, 

And  the  sunshine  in  their  eyes, 
Shining  still,  without  eclipse, 

When  the  stars  are  in  the  skies  ! 
Many  days  we  roamed  together,, 

In  the  summer's  long,  blue  light, 
Chasing  down  the  lengthening  shadows, 

Toward  the  corridors  of  night  — 
Pulling  cowslips  in  the  valleys, 

Hunting  berries  in  the  wood, 
Where  the  summer  sunshine  dallies 

With  the  trailing  golden-rod  ! 
But  my  shadow  has  grown  longer, 

As  I  tread  those  meadows  wide, 
And  no  more  in  summer  mornings 

Other  shadows  fall  beside  ! 
And  I  seem  to  see  a  vision,  — 

For  they  come  to  me  once  more, 
From  the  dusky  realm  of  phantoms, 

As  they  never  came  before,  — 
Putting  back  the  golden  tresses, 

Which  around  their  foreheads  lay, 
20* 


234  JUNE-DAY   DREAMINGS. 

Like  the  smiling  of  the  sunset 
O'er  the  death-bed  of  the  day, 

"With  their  blue  eyes  gazing  upward, 
And  their  pale  hands  clasped  in  prayer, 

Journeyed  they  unto  the  country 
Than  all  other  lands  more  fair  ; 

With  my  hands  I  cannot  clasp  them, 
And  my  dim  eyes  cannot  see 

When  they  seem  to  smile  upon  me, 
For  the  tears  that  in  them  be  ! 
On  the  same  gray  rock  I  'm  sitting, 
Still  the  butterflies  are  flitting  — 
Still  the  very  air  is  humming 
With  the  birds  and  beetle-thrumming  ; 

Cowslips  nod  within  the  valleys, 
Berries  blush  within  the  wood  ; 

Still  the  summer  sunshine  dallies 
With  the  trailing  golden-rod,  — 
But  they  cannot  give  me  pleasure ; 
To  a  slow  and  solemn  measure        ; 
Tceads  my  heart  the  march  of  life, 
Getting  weary  with  the  strife ; 

Only  spirits  sit  beside  me, 
Only  air  is  on  my  brow  ; 

Only  unseen  fingers  guide  me, 
I  am  weary,  —  where  art  thou  ? 


THE  MAN   IN  THE  MOON. 


I  IIAVE  just  been  putting  the  rose-hucd  drapery  away  from  the 
window  of  my  little  sanctum, 

"  And  I  would  you  had  been  there  to  see 
How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously." 

The  moon  is  smiling  down  on  her  earth-worn  daughter,  as 
peacefully  as  an  angel's  blessing.  Over  the  blue  sky  glide  white, 
fleecy  clouds,  all  tremulous  with  silvery  light,  and  here  and 
there  a  golden  star  floats  out  into  the  clear  azure,  pacing  a 
stately  minuet ;  for  the  wild  star-dance  of  December  is  over. 
But,  even  to-night,  my  heart  is  beating  a  mournful  cadence  to 
olden  memories,  that  came  stealing  over  me  as  I  sat  at  the 
pleasant  window.  O,  what  a  soft  hand  was  laid  upon  my  tres 
ses  ;  but  cold  and  still  in  death  is  that  fair  hand  now !  Still, 
down  from  Paradise  gleam  her  brown  eyes,  and  her  voice  floats 
out  from  the  corridors  of  the  past,  like  a  spirit-whisper. 

And  then,  there  are  memories,  such  as  every  one  has  who 
feels  that  the  earth-stain  has  fallen  on  his  spirit,  never  so  lightly ; 
—  memories,  half  mournful,  of  childhood's  innocent  visions  and 
trusting  faith.  Among  these,  gently  to  my  heart  there  steals  the 
shadowing  of  my  first  love-dream. 

I  was  always  a  strange,  wild  dreamer ;  and  I  fancied  that  all 
above  the  earth  must  be  the  abode  of  the  good,  and  true,  and 


236  THE   MAN   IN   THE  MOON. 

beautiful ;  for  I  was  sure  that  down,  low  down  beneath  my  feet, 
was  the  river  of  Phlegethon,  and  the  sleepless  hell.  So  upward  I 
gazed  ever,  like  the  children  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress ;  and  when 
they  told  me  there  was  a  "  Man  in  the  Moon,"  my  childish  heart 
soon  learned  to  regard  him  as  the  impersonation  of  all  beauty, 
light  and  loveliness.  And  then,  in  time,  I  grew  to  fancy  he 
looked  lovingly  from  his  lofty  throne  on  my  simple  worship ; 
and  that  he  wore  a  smile  for  me,  invisible  to  other  eyes.  Night 
after  night  I  watched  him  ;  and  when  they  thought  I  was  soundly 
sleeping,  I  would  rise,  and  draw  the  curtain  from  before  the  foot 
of  my  white  bed,  that  he  might  look  on  me  in  my  sleep,  and 
watch  over  my  dreams.  And  when  they  said  my  eyes  were  dull 
and  dreamy,  and  mourned  that  the  "  Great  All-Father  "  had  not 
gifted  me  with  beauty,  he  seemed  to  bend  and  whisper,  "  Ah, 
loved  one,  't  is  but  to  keep  the  spirit  bright,  and  its  beauty  will 
tremble  through,  —  thou  art  my  heart's  bride  still !  " 

The  months  and  years  passed  on,  and  purer  and  paler  grew 
my  brow ;  for  I  was  weary  —  restless  with  ever  striving  to  keep 
my  heart  bright  for  my  spirit-bridegroom.  0  !  how  I  lingered 
for  his  voice, — how  I  watched  and  waited  for  his  coming! 
Wild,  stormy  nights,  such  as  witches  run  riot  in,  my  heart  was 
glad,  for  I  thought  the  moon  shone  not,  because  his  face  was  gone ; 
and  that  he  was  roaming  through  the  air  in  search  of  me,  coming 
to  bear  me  home.  0 !  what  dreams  I  had  of  that  beautiful 
country,  of  the  lakes  that  were  sleeping  in  the  silver  light,  and 
the  low  chimes  ringing  through  the  folded  lily-bells !  With 
every  disappointment,  my  pure  faith  seemed  to  brighten,  and  I 
hoped  on. 

At  last,  my  gentle  mother,  with  tears  in  her  prayerful  eyes, 


THE   MAN   IN   THE   MOON.  237 

folded  her  soft  arms  around  me,  and,  kissing  her  child,  sent  me 
off  to  school.  School  —  ah  me !  it  is  a  weary  place  to  send  a 
young  child,  with  a  heart  brimful  of  spirit-fancies.  I  believe 
the  scholars  all  laughed  at  my  strange  dream ;  and  I  think  they 
told  the  teacher,  for  she  gave  me  a  lesson  in  astronomy  to  learn 
next  day.  She  was  a  kind,  noble  woman,  and  yet  I  never  dared 
to  love  her.  There  was  a  world  of  straight-forward,  genuine 
kindness  in  her  words  and  tone,  and  then  she  was  wise,  too ;  we 
children  trembled  as  we  thought  how  wise ;  but  there  was  no 
romance  stored  away  beneath  her  broad  brow  and  raven  hair, 
and  I  knew  (for  everywhere  children  have  a  God-given  talisman 
to  read  the  hearts  of  men)  she  would  laugh  mockingly  at  the 
sweet  whispers  of  my  spirit-love ;  so  I  only  stole  away  and  looked 
at  him  from  the  window  in  the  broad,  steep  landing  of  the  old- 
fashioned  stairs.  But  they  brought  the  lights,  and  took  me 
away  from  my  Eden,  and  set  me  down  to  learn  my  long,  long 
lesson  in  astronomy  !  And  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  read,  with 
tear-dimmed  eyes,  Low  far  the  moon  is  from  our  little  world ! 

Perhaps  older  children  have  dreamed  dreams  a  little  like  my 
own.  Perhaps  others  than  I  may  have  looked  too  many  weary 
miles  above  them,  and  read  their  fate  in  eyes  that  gave  back  no 
answering  light  into  their  own.  But  scarcely  more  bitter  can 
have  been  their  agony  than  mine,  when,  in  my  innocent,  trusting 
childhood,  with  my  white  robe  still  floating  like  a  cloud  about 
me,  and  the  heavenly  sunshine  still  sleeping  in  my  hair,  I  read 
this  terrible  sentence,  that  seemed  the  death-knell  of  all  human 
hopes  and  joys,  "  The  distance  of  the  moon  from  the  earth  is 
two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  miles ! "  It  crushed  all  my 
beautiful  star-hopes  in  a  moment.  I  knew  he  had  not  learned  to 


238  THE   MAN   IN   THE   MOON. 

love  me  from  that  long  distance  off ;  and  I  thought  it  was  so  far 
he  could  never  journey  earth-ward.  O !  how  bitterly  I  wept 
that  night,  with  the  curtains  closely  drawn  at  my  bed's  foot,  that 
he  might  not  look  at  my  misery  !  But  at  last  I  sobbed  myself 
to  sleep  ;  and  then  there  came  to  me  the  beautiful  Virgin  mother, 
with  her  smiling  eyes  ;  my  bed  grew  soft  and  light,  like  the  little 
bed  at  home,  and  she  lifted  my  head  on  her  bosom,  and  whispered, 
"  Be  good,  dear  child,  and  look  upward  still ;  there  is  love  for 
thee  in  heaven  !  "  But  she  could  not  take  me  with  her,  for  I 
must  linger  on  the  green  earth,  ever  striving  to  keep  my  heart 
bright,  and  my  white  robe  pure.  And  still  I  strive,  and  still  I 
linger ;  and  the  memory  of  that  early  love,  and  the  gentle  whis 
per  of  the  Virgin  mother,  go  ever  with  me  as  a  talisman. 

But  others  than  I  have  dreamed  thus !  Others  than  I  have 
been  woke  to  tears  and  suffering,  —  and  God  grant  that  to  all 
such  summoning  whispers  from  the  Eden-land  may  come ;  and 
to  the  heart  that  earthly  love  has  left  desolate  the  love-light 
may  still  glow  and  brighten  around  the  Saviour  upon  the  cross  ! 
Truly,  for  such  the  reward  is  great  in  heaven ! 


THE  BISHOP'S  BRIDE. 


THE  Bishop  was  coming  to  Ryefield, —  coming  to  spend  six 
long  summer  weeks  in  our  pleasant  little  village,  in  search  of 
rest  and  quiet !  Kyefield  people  are,  for  the  most  part,  hos 
pitable,  and  they  usually  mind  their  own  business,  at  least,  half 
the  time ;  but,  then,  one  does  n't  see  a  real,  live  bishop  every  day, 
and  I  suppose  this  was  why  the  young  ladies  all  got  together, 
the  day  before  he  was  expected,  to  form  a  league  against  his 
peace  and  happiness. 

It  so  chanced  that  our  bishop  had  never  obeyed  the  scriptural 
injunction,  to  "  be  the  husband  of  one  wife."  He  was  thirty-five, 
and  a  bachelor.  He  was  accounted  remarkably  fine-looking,  and 
I  remember  I  thought  him  even  handsome,  with  his  tall,  firmly-knit 
figure,  his  clear,  blue  eyes,  and  his  heavy,  waving  curls  of  chest 
nut-brown  hair.  He  seemed,  from  all  we  could  learn  of  him,  to 
be  a  man  of  the  "  St.  John  Rivers "  order,  somewhat  cold  and 
stern,  but  indefatigably  devoted  to  his  calling.  He  had  been 
admitted  to  the  priesthood  at  twenty-three,  and  nearly  ten  years 
of  his  after  life  had  been  passed  in  the  establishment  of  Indian 
missions.  The  bishopric  had  fallen  on  his  head  unsought,  and 
in  his  daily  life  he  still  walked  humbly,  as  one  of  the  least  of 
Christ's  disciples. 

And  yet  all  his  Christian  humility  could  not  prevent  us  from 
holding  a  sewing-society,  and,  as  I  have  said,  conspiring  against 


240  THE   BISHOP'S   BRIDE. 

his  peace.  We  must  surely  all  get  acquainted  with  him,  —  tha+ 
was  resolved  on,  and  a  discussion  was  forthwith  held  as  to  ways 
and  means.  "  I  shall  be  presented  to  him,"  said  the  queenly 
Ada  Glengyle,  "  for  I  know  his  sister  very  well,  and,  beside,  —  " 

"  And,  beside,"  interrupted  dashing  Kate  Barclay,  "  you  are 
chief  soprano  singer ;  but  that  won't  help  us  any.  I  say,  girls, 
what  do  you  think  of  a  picnic  ?  We  could  ask  the  bishop's 
protection,  just  hinting  that  we  were  all  lambs  of  his  flock." 

"  Capital !  capital ! "  cried  several  voices ;  and  saucy  May 
Evelyn  shook  down  her  golden  curls,  and  tossed  her  little  head. 
"  I  give  you  fair  warning,  girls,"  she  exclaimed,  laughingly, 
."  fair  warning.  I  am  quite  resolved  Bishop  Blake  shall  never 
leave  Kyefield  without  a  wife.  If  any  of  the  rest  of  you  can  do 
better  than  I  can,  you  're  welcome  to  try.  Bat  what  do  you 
say,  Lily  White  ?  you  have  n't  spoken  yet." 

"  I  say,  that  I  hardly  think  it 's  right  to  talk  so  about  the 
bishop.  He  seems  to  me  like  St.  Paul,  or  one  of  the  angels. 
I  don't  ever  expect  to  get  much  acquainted  with  him ;  I  shall 
be  quite  satisfied  if,  some  time,  he  lays  his  hand  on  my  head  and 
blesses  me,  and  looks  at  me  with  his  clear,  blue  eyes." 

"  Dear,  sweet,  innocent  Lily  !  "  we  all  cried,  and  the  white 
Lily  bowed  her  fair  head,  and  stole  away.  Lily  White  was  an 
orphan  —  every  one's  darling.  The  whole  village  loved  her,  and 
already,  at  sixteen  years  old,  she  had  been  for  eighteen  months 
the  teacher  of  the  village  children,  and  the  guardian  spirit  of  the 
little  country  school-house.  No  strong  man,  with  his  rod  of 
iron,  could  have  ruled  the  little  ones  half  as  skilfully  as  Lily, 
with  her  sceptre  of  love.  I  never  heard  any  one  call  her  beauti 
ful,  but,  looking  back,  her  fair  face,  rising  up  before  me,  leaves 


THE   BISHOP'S   BRIDE. 


the  impression  of  surpassing  beauty.  And  yet  it  was  a  face 
you  might  pass  a  hundred  times  in  a  crowd  without  looking 
after  it,  but,  once  really  seen,  it  could  never  be  forgotten.  Every 
feature  was  fashioned  with  a  quiet,  pensive  grace,  that  left  you 
nothing  to  desire.  Her  eyes,  a  clear,  dark  gray,  hardly  deep 
enough  in  tint  for  hazel,  were  fringed  with  golden  lashes  so  long 
they  fairly  cast  a  shadow  on  her  pearl-like  cheek ;  and  her  fig 
ure  was  graceful,  lithe,  and  almost  too  slight.  Her  whole  beauty 
was  of  the  lily  type,  and  she  had  been  most  fitly  named. 

Two  days  after  the  above  conversation,  we  were  all  together, 
upon  the  green,  as  was  often  our  custom  on  summer  evenings. 
We  were  gathered  in  groups  under  the  tall  old  elm-trees,  and 
were  chatting  merrily,  when,  glancing  up,  we  perceived  our  be 
loved  gray -haired  rector,  and  with  him  Bishop  Blake.  They  had 
come  amongst  us  unperceived ;  but  the  bishop  spoke. 

"  Good-evening,  my  dear  young  ladies,"  he  said,  in  his  deep, 
musical  tones ;  "I  must  get  acquainted  with  all  of  you,  for  I 
believe  you  are  all  '  lambs  of  my  flock.' " 

I  don't  know,  to  this  day,  whether  this  latter  clause  of  the 
sentence  was  a  genuine  expression  of  the  good  bishop's  kind 
ness  of  heart,  or  whether  he  had  by  some  means  become 
informed  of  our  conversation  at  the  sewing-society;  but  I  do 
know  there  was  n't  a  girl  present  whose  cheek  did  n't  wear  the 
hue  of  a  peony  as  she  replied  to  the  bishop's  salutation. 

After  that,  we  found  the  bishop  not  at  all  formidable,  and 
really  a  delightful  companion.  Saucy  May  Evelyn  declared 
that  he  did  flirt  —  that  he  was  particularly  attentive  to  every 
body,  and  yet  not  particularly  attentive  to  anybody.  It  waa 
such  an  unusual  thing  for  a  bishop  to  hurry  through  with  his 
21 


242  THE  BISHOP'S  BRIDE. 

appointments  early  in  the  season,  just  for  the  sake  of  recruiting 
his  health  at  a  simple  country  village !  No  wonder  the  girls 
determined  he  should  not  leave  without  getting  married.  But 
time  passed  on,  and  his  resolution  did  n't  seem  any  nearer  being 
carried  into  effect.  If  one  person  was  more  frequently  than 
another  his  companion,  it  was  May  Evelyn.  Her  piquancy 
seemed  to  amuse  him,  much  as  would  the  gambols  of  a  favorite 
child ;  and  the  little  romp  affirmed  that  she  could  never  succeed 
in  convincing  him  that  she  was  not  his  granddaughter. 


The  last  day  of  July  rose  with  a  strange  glory,  like  the  clouds 
that  herald  a  tempest.  The  sun  looked  forth  out  of  a  heavy 
mist,  and  sent  before  him  clouds  robed  in  gorgeous  drapery  of 
gold  and  purple.  The  day  passed  over,  scorching,  sultry  and 
silent.  But  toward  night  the  storm  broke,  and  the  evening  set 
in  wild  and  wet.  The  gloom  was  impenetrable,  save  when  the 
darkness  was  rent  apart  by  a  fitful  flash  of  lightning,  brief,  but 
terribly  bright. 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  still  the  bishop  sat  by  the  small 
table  in  his  pleasant  study  at  the  rectory.  Sometimes  he  read ; 
then  he  would  lay  the  book  aside,  and  listen  to  the  wail,  the 
desolate  tramp,  of  the  winds  without.  At  last  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  the  bishop,  drawing  his  dressing-gown 
about  him,  was  going  down  stairs,  when  he  heard  it  opened  by 
Jennie,  the  old  housekeeper. 

"  Why,  child,  is  it  you,  in  this  dreadful  storm  ?  and  what  do 
you  want  ? "  he  heard  her  ask ;  and  then  a  low,  sweet  voice 
made  answer  — 


THE   BISHOP'S   BRIDE.  243 

"  Old  Dame  Margery  is  dying,  Jennie,  and  I  was  staying  with 
her  all  alone.  She  kept  shrieking  out  for  a  minister  to  pray  by 
her  bed-side,  and  I  felt  that  I  could  not  hope  for  mercy  in  my 
own  last  hour  if  I  disregarded  her  prayer.  There  was  no  one 
else  to  come,  and  I  thought  Tom  would  harness  the  horse,  and 
take  the  rector  back  with  me." 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  you  strange  child !  "  said  Jennie,  com- 
mandingly.  "As  for  you,  you  won't  go  back  till  day-light;  and 
the  master  is  sick,  and  can't  be  disturbed,  let  alone  the  asking 
him  to  go  out  in  such  a  storm  as  this." 

"  0,  but  Jennie,  indeed  you  must  not  keep  me  !  If  no  one 
can  go  with  me,  I  must  go  back  alone.  I  should  never  rest 
again,  if  I  left  poor  Margery  there  to  die,  with  no  watcher  but 
the  storm.  No,  no,  Jennie,  I  must  go !  " 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Bishop  Blake,  advancing  to  the  door. 
"  You  shall  go,  and  I  will  go  with  you,"  and  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  Lily  White's  tresses,  all  wet  with  the  storm.  "  Jennie, 
you  need  not  call  Tom ;  just  give  me  a  lantern,  and  I  can  har 
ness  my  horse  myself,  as  I  have  done,  many  a  worse  night  than 
this.  Take  this  poor  child  into  the  study,  in  the  mean  time. 
There  is  a  good  fire  there,  and  she  will  get  warm ;  and  then  give 
her  a  glass  of  mulled  wine,  if  you  have  it,  —  it  will  keep  her  from 
taking  cold." 

Never  before  had  Lily  White  reverenced  the  bishop  so  deeply 
as  when  he  stood  by  her  side  at  old  Dame  Margery's  dying  bed, 
soothing  the  terror  of  the  dying  woman,  and  pointing  her  for 
salvation  to  the  cross  on  which  her  God  had  suffered.  His  clear, 
deep  tones  rose  above  the  wail  of  the  blast,  even  as  above  all 
the  storms  and  temptations  of  life  may  be  heard  the  "still, 


244  THE  BISHOP'S  BRIDE. 

small  voice "  guiding  us  on  our  way  to  heaven.  The  terror- 
stricken  heart  was  calmed,  the  weak  faith  strengthened,  and 
when  at  last  Dame  Margery  fell  asleep,  it  was  with  a  smile  on 
her  face. 

Three  weeks  after,  as  Lily  White  walked  alone  in  the  clear 
moonlight,  a  tall,  stately  figure  joined  her,  and  a  rich,  earnest 
voice  murmured,  "  Lily  White,  I  love  you,  as  I  never  before 
loved  woman.  When  I  saw  you  standing  at  the  rector's  door,  that 
dreadful  night,  I  wondered  that  I  had  never  before  noticed  your 
delicate  and  exceeding  beauty.  But  it  is  not  for  that  I  love 
you.  If  every  thread  of  your  sunny  tresses  is  dear  as  my  own 
life,  it  is  not  because  they  are  so  beautiful  in  their  golden 
hue ;  but,  Lily,  there  was  a  bond  to  knit  your  heart  to  mine, 
in  that  night-watch,  by  the  dying.  I  loved  you  then  for  your 
earnest  faith,  your  sublime,  fearless  courage,  your  unselfishness, 
and  strength  of  purpose.  It  is  a  love  which  would  last,  if  the 
fair  lily  should  wither  on  the  stalk,  and  the  graceful  figure  be 
bowed  by  age.  Will  you  let  me  so  love  you,  Lily  ?  Will  you 
be  my  wife?" 

I  did  not  hear  Lily  White's  answer.  I  only  know  that  when 
the  harvest-moon  smiled  upon  Ryefield  she  was  poor  and  an 
orphan  no  longer.  She  slept  upon  a  true  heart,  strong  arms 
sheltered  her,  a  fond  voice  called  her  name,  and  the  bishop 
did  n't  leave  Ryefield  without  getting  married. 


MY   BLIND    BABY. 


SLEEP  softly  on  thy  mother's  breast,  my  baby !  Thou  wilt 
have  many  a  colder  pillow,  ere  the  banners  wave  and  the  bugles 
sound  thy  triumph  in  life's  great  battle. 

Thou  art  beautiful,  my  darling!  The  curls  lie  soft  and  golden 
as  pale  bands  of  sunlight,  above  thy  pure  brow ;  the  smile 
brightens  round  those  lips,  like  moonlight  over  snow ;  and 
thy  soft  voice  swells  with  music,  like  a  shell  from  the  Indian 
sea,  when  the  southern  wind  breathes  through  it. 

And  yet  there  is  a  seal  on  thy  blue  eyes,  when  they  are 
raised  to  mine.  A  faint  shadow  is  upon  them,  as  if  the  soul 
were  struggling  to  gaze  forth,  and  could  not ;  as  if  thou  wert 
too  pure  for  earth,  and  thy  glance  could  only  soar  upward  for 
thy  lost  Eden. 

For  thee  it  is  in  vain  that  the  winds  blow  the  rye-fields  into 
billows,  or  the  sunshine  lies  soft  and  warm  on  the  meadow-land. 
In  vain  that  the  violets  purple  dingles  and  hill-sides,  or  the 
blue  sky  is  bluer  than  thine  eyes.  I  cannot  smile  on  thee,  till 
an  answer  dimples  into  thy  rose-heart  cheeks,  —  my  little  girl  is 
blind ! 

Woe  to  the  life-path  round  which  the  clouds  have  so  early 
settled  !  —  to  the  heart  which  has  so  early  been  written  deso 
late  !  Woe  to  my  darling,  when  no  longer  thy  mother's  arm 


246  MY   BLIND   BABY. 

can  shield  thee,  no  longer  thy  mother's  hand  can  bear  thee 
up !  Woe  to  thee,  when  the  green  grass  is  growing,  and  the 
wild-flowers  nodding  over  the  heart  beneath  which  thou  hast 
lain  ! 

And  yet,  why  ?  Be  still,  O  faithless,  unbelieving  mother's 
heart,  —  be  silent !  Is  not  the  blue  sky  our  Father's  home  ?  Is 
there  not  one  eye  which  never  slumbers  ?  Has  not  one  voice 
bidden  the  blind  to  see  and  the  lame  to  walk,  and  yet  do  we 
dare  murmur  ?  Hush  thee,  baby  !  angels  are  whispering  to  thee 
in  dreams  ;  and  when  the  dust  is  on  my  brow,  and  the  sod  upon 
my  heart,  thou  shalt  walk  safely  ;  for  unseen  hands  shall  guide 
thee,  and  the  blue  eyes,  closed  on  earth,  shalt  be  but  brighter 
and  purer  in  the  sunlight  of  heaven  ! 


A   HUSKING-PARTY  AT  RYEFIELD. 

"  And  when  into  the  quiet  night  the  sunset  lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil  shadows  lay, 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet  without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry  huskers  came. 

"  Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks  in  the  mow, 
Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene  below  ; 
The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears  before, 
And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands,  and  brown  cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

"  Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and  heart, 
Talking  their  old  tunes  o'er  again,  the  old  men  sat  apart ; 
While  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in  its  shade, 
At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy  children  played. 

"  Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter, —  a  maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes,  and  pride  of  soft  brown  hair,  — 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm  a  husking-ballad  sung." 

WHITTIEB. 

X 
"  Do  you  ever  have  husking-parties  in  Kyefield  ?  "  wrote  a 

dear  friend,  the  other  day.  The  question  awoke  to  life  many  a 
sweet  memory  of  the  olden  time ;  and  this,  my  answer,  must 
needs  be  a  long  one. 

It  was  many  years  since,  —  that  is,  it  seems  so  now,  though  to 
count  them  it  would  not  be  so  very  long, — that  I  passed  my  first 


248  A   HUSKING-PARTY   AT   BYEFIELD. 

autumn  in  Ryefield.  It  had  been  a  beautiful  season,  —  so  beau 
tiful  that  we  scarce  had  noted  the  summer  putting  away  with 
pale  hands  her  bands  of  flowers,  and  closing  her  dim  eyes  in 
death.  The  blossoms  of  the  autumn  had  stood  high  and  fair,  — 
the  asters,  and  golden-rods,  and  the  patient  laurels.  The  fruit 
hung  heavily,  and  my  life  had  been  passing  like  the  clear,  ring 
ing  song  of  a  summer  bird. 

It  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  I  had  gone  out  to  search  for 
hen's  eggs,  —  I  was  to  have  some  pan-cakes,  in  the  event  of  my 
success,  and  I  was  highly  elated  by  the  importance  of  my  mis 
sion.  I  had  climbed  to  the  very  highest  beam,  and  was  hold 
ing  on  with  all  my  might. 

"  Holloa,  Sis,  what  are  you  up  there  for  ?  "  I  heard  brother 
Frank's  voice  call,  far  beneath  me  ;  and,  bending  over,  I  peeped 
down  upon  him.  "  Sis,  do  come  down,  won't  you,  —  there  's  a 
good  girl  !  " 

"  I  'm  astonished,"  I  began. 

"  Astonished  !  "  Frank  cried,  interrupting  me  ;  "  well,  I  guess 
you  would  be,  if  you  knew  what  I  do ;  but  I  'm  not  going  to  tell 
you  till  you  come  down  here." 

Of  course  my  curiosity  was  stronger  than  my  wish  for  pan 
cakes,  and  I  hurried  down. 

"  Well,  there,  Lou,"  said  my  brother,  when  I  had  safely 
"  landed,"  as  he  called  it,  on  the  floor,  —  "  well,  there,  Lou,  you 
just  beat  all  for  climbing,  anyhow  ;  —  but  what  do  you  think,  — 
they  are  going  to  have  a  party,  to-night,  over  in  Grandfather's 
barn ! " 

"  A  party  in  the  barn,  you  stupid  !  —  and  who  are  they  going 
to  ask,  —  the  horses  ?  " 


A   HUSKING-PARTY   AT   KYEFIELD.  249 

"  No,  no,  Lou,  I  tell  you  we  are  going  to  have  a  real  party  in 
the  barn.  It 's  to  husk  the  corn,  you  know;  and  then  they  '11  go 
into  the  house,  and  get  some  of  Grandma's  pumpkin-pies.  All 
the  girls  and  boys  are  going,  and  mother  says  you  and  I  can  go 
over  and  stay  all  day,  for  perhaps  Grandma  will  want  us  to  run 
of  errands  for  her." 

"  You  don't  say  so,  Frank  !  Girls  and  boys  and  pumpkin- 
pies  !  Glorious ! " 

In  five  minutes  more,  I  had  on  my  scarlet  merino  dress,  and 
Frank  his  new  jacket,  and  we  were  hurrying  over  the  fields 
toward  Grandpa's.  0,  what  a  dear  old  homestead  was  that 
brown,  one-story  farm-house  !  How  cheerful  and  home-like 
the  great,  old  kitchen  always  looked,  —  the  strings  of  bright 
red  peppers  across  the  windows,  the  rows  of  polished  pewter 
upon  the  dresser,  and  the  broad  old  fireplace,  with  its  brightly 
blazing  logs ! 

"  Good-morning,  children,"  said  Grandmother's  pleasant  voice, 
as  we  entered.  "  You  've  come  to  stay  all  day  with  me,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Frank,  "  if  you  '11  please  not  to  send  us 
home.  We  will  do  anything  in  the  world  to  help  you,  if  you  '11 
let  us." 

"  Well,  well ;  I  suppose  you  are  hungry,  an't  you  ?  Here 
are  some  little  pies,  —  made  on  purpose  for  little  folks,  like 
you,  —  and  then  you  can  go  into  the  long  hall  and  see  the 
tables." 

Grandmother's  tables  !  I  wonder  if  ever  there  was  anything 
else  just  like  them  ?  They  were  as  good  as  a  written  character. 
You  could  see  Grandmother  there,  unmistakably.  They  were 


250  A   HUSKING-PAKTY   AT   RYEFIELD. 

spread  with  snow-white  cloths,  and  a  place  was  left  in  the  centre 
for  the  turkeys  and  the  chicken-pies.  All  around  stood  the 
deep,  old-fashioned  china-plates,  heaped  up  with  every  variety 
of  goodies.  There  were  custards  and  jelly-cakes,  in  immediate 
proximity  to  pumpkin-pies  and  plum-puddings.  Then  there  were 
the  great,  red-cheeked  apples,  and  the  late  October  pears,  just 
getting  ripe  and  mellow. 

0,  what  a  long,  happy  day  we  passed  !  now  watching  Grand 
ma  stuff  the  turkeys,  and  now  running  out  to  the  great,  old  barn 
where  Grandpa  was  helping  his  men  to  heap  up  the  unhusked 
corn  in  the  western  end.  And  by  and  by,  when  night  came ; 
when  we  had  watched  the  great  fire  kindled  in  the  uncarpetcd, 
but  nicely-sanded  parlor  ;  when  Grandma  had  put  on  her  black- 
silk  dress,  and  Grandpa  his  Sunday  coat,  we  went  into  the  barn 
to  watch  the  coming  of  the  guests,  feeling  well  assured  that  we 
were  the  happiest  children  in  the  world. 

Very  soon  Uncle  Horace  joined  us.  He  was  my  father's 
youngest  brother,  at  that  time  about  twenty,  and  during  the 
season  of  which  I  am  writing  the  "  schoolmaster  "  of  the  pleas 
ant  village  of  Kyefield.  He  had  got  through  trying  to  be  terri 
ble,  for  this  day  at  least,  and  made  his  way  to  his  mother's  pan 
try,  where  stood  a  reserve  corps  of  pumpkin-pies,  flanked  by  a 
cold  chicken  ;  and  now,  having  satisfied  the  cravings  of  the  inner 
man,  was  whistling  a  merry  tune  as  he  joined  us  in  the  barn.  I 
have  always  thought  my  Uncle  Horace  was  one  of  the  hand 
somest  men  I  ever  met.  He  was  tall,  and  rather  stoutly-made, 
with  a  full,  open  brow,  curling  hazel  hair,  and  laughing  hazel 
eyes.  And  then  he  was  always  so  kind  to  us  children,  no  wonder 
he  was  a  favorite. 


A   IIUSKING-PARTY   AT   RYEFIELB.  251 

Very  soon  the  company  began  to  assemble.  First  came  the 
old  people  aad  children,  and  after  them  the  rustic  beaux  and 
belles,  and  —  Mary  Andrews.  This  latter  was  the  belle,  par  excel 
lence,  of  our  little  village.  She  was  a  saucy-looking  gypsy  of  six 
teen,  with  as  bright  an  eye  as  ever  flashed  back  sunlight,  and  as 
pretty  a  foot  as  ever  trod  the  mazes  of  a  country  dance.  She  was 
quite  an  exception  to  all  the  other  Marys  I  ever  saw  —  an  ar 
rant  little  coquette  as  the  moon  ever  shone  on. 

There  was  scarcely  a  young  man  in  our  village  that  had  not 
been  down  on  his  knees  for  one  of  her  jetty  ringlets,  and  def 
erentially  intimated  that  a  marriage  license  would  neither  be 
beyond  his  means  or  his  inclination.  For  the  past  six  months  my 
Uncle  Horace  had  been  the  favored  recipient  of  her  "  nods  and 
becks  and  wreathed  smiles,"  and  the  gossips  had  already  begun 
to  look  grave,  and  predict  a  wedding  at  the  mansion  of  Squire 
Andrews.  To  be  sure,  Uncle  Horace  told  us  children  that  he 
had  no  such  notion  in  his  curly  head,  and  that  he  would  ask  our 
permission  "before  ever  he  went  courting;"  but  of  course  we 
did  n't  believe  him.  Mary  had  on  a  new  dress,  on  this  eventful 
evening,  —  a  large  and  very  bright-colored  plaid.  They  were  just 
coming  in  fashion  then,  and  it  was  n't  every  one  that  could  afford 
one ;  but  Mary  Andrews  was  a  rich  man's  daughter. 

It  was,  perhaps,  a  little  too  showy  for  the  occasion ;  still  it  waa 
very  becoming,  and,  if  Mary's  object  had  been  to  excite  the  envy 
of  the  feminine  portion  of  community,  she  succeeded  admir 
ably.  They  had  all  been  assembled  about  half  an  hour,  and  of 
course  Uncle  Horace  was  sitting  by  Mary,  and  there  were  jokes, 
and  smiles,  and  blushes  ;  then  there  was  a  slight  stir,  occasioned 
oy  the  entrance  of  a  new  comer. 


252  A   HUSKING-PARTY   AT   KYEFIELD. 

I  looked  around.  Grandmother  entered  first,  and  after  her 
came  a  tali,  thin  lady,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  slight,  graceful 
girl. 

"  This  is  my  old  friend,  Mrs.  Lee,"  said  Grandmother,  in  her 
good,  kind  voice.  "  She  moved  into  Honeysuckle  Cottage  a  few 
weeks  ago,  and  I  persuaded  her  to  come  over  here  to-night,  be 
cause  this  little  girl  of  hers  could  not  come  alone,  and  I  wanted 
all  of  you  should  get  acquainted  with  Norah  Lee." 

People's  sympathies  move  quicker  in  country  places,  reader ; 
there  are  not  so  many  folds  of  silk  and  velvet  to  bind  down  the 
heart;  and  the  welcome  extended  to  the  pale  widow  and  her 
child  was  as  cordial  as  that  of  dear  old  friends.  I  learned  their 
history  afterward.  Mrs.  Lee,  though  much  younger  than  my 
grandmother,  had,  at  one  time,  been  her  schoolmate,  and  a 
strong  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  the  kindly  maiden 
and  the  sweet  child.  But  my  grandmother  then  married,  and 
settled  in  another  town ;  and,  some  few  years  after,  her  friend 
married  James  Lee,  a  wealthy  New  York  merchant.  Occa 
sionally  my  grandmother  heard  of  her  —  how,  one  by  one,  her 
seven  children  faded  from  her  arms,  until,  at  last,  there  was  none 
left  but  Norah  ;  and  then  there  was  a  long  interval  of  silence. 
My  grandmother  was  serenely  growing  old  in  her  pleasant  home, 
and  Mrs.  Lee,  moving  in  the  midst  of  wealth  and  fashion,  was 
anxiously  watching  the  childhood  of  her  one  ewe  lamb,  her  little 
Norah.  But,  a  few  weeks  before  the  husking-party,  my  grand 
father  brought  a  new  dress  home,  from  a  neighboring  town, 
and  around  it  was  wrapped  an  old  newspaper.  Grandmother 
untied  the  bundle,  and  was  folding  up  the  paper  with  her  custom 
ary  thrift,  when  her  eye  fell  upon  the  notice  of  the  bankruptcy 


A   IIUSKING-PARTY   AT   EYEFIELD.  253 

and  subsequent  death  of  the  wholesale  merchant,  James  Lee,  leav 
ing  his  wife  and  daughter  totally  unprovided  for. 

Grandmother's  letter-writing  days  were  over  long  ago,  and  to 
sign  her  name  even  was  a  work  of  time ;  but  she  would  allow 
no  hand  but  her  own  to  pen  the  missive  which  offered  Mrs. 
Lee  the  use  of  Honeysuckle  Cottage,  rent  free,  and  besought  her 
to  make  her  future  home  in  Ryefield.  To  be  sure,  Honeysuckle 
Cottage,  romantic  as  its  name  sounds,  was  but  a  wee  little  moss- 
covered  building,  with  two  rooms,  and  an  out-house  for  cooking 
and  washing ;  but  it  was  snug  and  warm,  and  the  rich  merchant's 
widow  thankfully  accepted  its  shelter.  At  the  time  our  brief 
sketch  opens,  she  had  been  in  possession  of  her  new  home  about 
three  weeks,  and  as  yet  few  of  the  villagers  had  seen  her.  Even 
Uncle  Horace  had  never  been  over  there,  and  the  sweet  face  of 
Norah  Lee  was  as  new  to  him  as  to  any  of  us. 

I  have  seen  women,  since  then,  whom  the  world  called  strangely 
beautiful ;  proud,  sultana-like  beauties,  that  would  make  you  hold 
your  breath  to  look  at  them ;  but  never  yet  have  I  seen  a  face 
that  my  eyes  deemed  so  fair  as  Norah  Lee's.  She  was  dressed  in 
a  plain,  black  frock,  with  high  neck  and  long  sleeves,  and  over 
this  her  rich,  golden-brown  hair  floated  in  heavy  ringlets.  Her 
eyes  were  a  clear,  deep  brown,  large  and  soft  as  a  gazelle's,  and 
her  brow  was  fair  and  pale  as  marble.  She  had  such  soft,  white, 
dimpled  hands,  too,  as  had  never  before  been  seen  in  Ryefield ; 
and  her  look  and  smile  were  at  once  so  appealing  and  sorrow 
fully  gentle  that  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet  her. 

At  least,  I  was  pretty  sure,  then,  that  Uncle  Horace's  did,  for 
something  very  like  a  blush  passed  over  his  cheek,  and  hia 
22 


254  A   HUSKING-PARTY   AT   RYEFIELD. 

voice  perceptibly  softened,  as  her  small  white  hand  rested  a  mo 
ment  on  his  broad  palm  ;  and  he  said,  very  gently, 

"  For  our  mothers'  sakes,  let  us  be  friends,  Miss  Lee." 

Norah  answered  all  the  salutations  that  were  bestowed  on  her, 
with  a  calm  gentleness ;  and  then,  blushing  timidly,  she  stole  to  a 
seat  by  her  mother's  side. 

"I  can't  get  this  husk  off,  Horace,  it's  so  tough !  "  said  Mary 
Andrews  ;  and  once  more  Horace  was  at  her  side,  and  they  were 
chatting  merrily  as  before.  And  yet,  it  was  very  singular,  but  I 
could  not  help  noticing  how  often  a  glance  would  steal  around 
to  the  quiet,  golden-haired  little  Norah,  in  the  corner. 

At  last  the  corn  was  husked,  and  Grandpa  said,  in  his  kindly 
voice, 

"  Now,  good  friends,  for  supper  !  "  and  young  and  old  rushed 
pell-mell  toward  the  house. 

"  Why,  Louise,  little  girl,"  said  a  big,  and  I  thought  very 
saucy  boy,  "  you  need  n't  make  such  great  mouths  at  that  very 
respectable  turkey.  He  's  meant  for  older  people  than  you." 

"  Here,  Simon,"  said  his  mother,  laughing,  reaching  toward  him 
a  full  plate  of  chicken-pie ;  "  there  's  supper  enough  for  all  of 
you,  and  so  you  can  just  let  the  little  girl  look  hungry  to  her 
heart's  content." 

Brother  Frank,  I  remember,  was  in  every  one's  way.  He  was 
evidently  convinced  that  he  was  the  most  important  personage  of 
the  whole  company,  and  of  course  was  sure  to  be  just  where  his 
presence  was  least  welcome. 

"  Hey,  old  fellow !  enjoying  yourself,  I  suppose  ?  We  were 
rather  sorry  to  have  supper  so  late,  on  account  of  the  old  folks ! " 
was  his  very  respectful  salutation  to  an  antiquated  bachelor,  do- 


A   HUSKING-PARTY   AT   RYEFIELD.  255 

ing  his  feeble  best  toward  rejuvenation.  Then  to  an  elderly 
maiden  lady,  near  at  hand,  "  Well,  Aunt  Eunice,  your  new  teeth 
look  pretty  well,  but  you  got  rather  too  dark-colored  hair  to  look 
natural."  But  these  were  only  little  things.  Altogether,  the 
supper  passed  off  very  pleasantly,  and  when  it  was  over  a  high 
degree  of  good  humor  prevailed. 

Under  its  influence,  the  old  people  assembled  themselves  in 
Grandma's  pleasant  kitchen,  and  left  the  spacious  parlor  for  the 
young  ones ;  and  then  —  but,  dear  reader,  if  you  never  assisted  at 
an  old-fashioned  husking,  not  even  my  eloquence  can  give  you  any 
idea  of  it.  The  exercises,  of  course,  opened  with  "  Button,  button, 
who's  got  the  button?"  and  then  there  was  "scorn,"  and  "for 
feits,"  and  "  tape  to  measure,"  and  "  skillets"  and  "  gridirons  " 
to  be  made,  and,  last  of  all,  Uncle  Horace  contrived  to  be  sent  to 
Rome.  Of  course,  every  pretty  girl  in  the  room  had  to  "  pay 
duty,"  except  Norah.  I'm  sure  Uncle  Horace  wasn't  at  all  un 
willing  to  kiss  her;  but  the  little  one  said,  "Please  don't,  Mr. 
Cleveland !  "  so  prettily,  and  turned  away  her  blushing  little  face, 
and  so  of  course  he  had  n't  the  heart  to  do  it. 

Well,  it  was  a  merry  husking-party  enough  ;  and  it  is  indeed 
queer,  but  Mary  Andrews  went  home  with  her  parents,  for 
Uncle  Horace  had  a  positive  conviction  that  Mrs.  Lee,  as  his 
mother's  friend,  required  his  first  attention,  and  I  never  heard 
that  he  made  the  slightest  objection  to  giving  his  other  arm  to 
Norah. 

The  winter  passed  very  quickly.  There  were  sleigh-rides,  and 
apple-parings,  and,  0,  such  good  times  coasting  !  0,  was  n't  it 
bright  ?  —  and  there  never  was  such  a  kind  schoolmaster  as  Uncle 
Horace.  He  seemed  just  brimming  over  with  happiness,  and  I 


256  A   HUSKING-PARTY   AT   KYEFIELD. 

don't  think  he  ever  punished  a  single  one  of  us.  Then  came  the 
blue-eyed  spring,  flinging  forth  over  the  land  the  blossomy 
robes  of  her  glory ;  and  we  were  to  have  a  May-pole  on  the 
green,  and  a  pleasant  picnic,  the  first  of  May.  This  was  a  time- 
honored  custom  at  Ryefield.  Last  year  Mary  Andrews  had 
been  queen,  and  she  had  become  her  honors  well ;  but  we  were 
thorough-going  little  democrats,  and  could  not  possibly  bow  the 
knee  twice  over  to  the  same  person ;  so,  by  universal  acclaim, 
Norah  Lee  was  chosen  queen  of  the  May.  In  vain  Mary  pouted, 
and  shook  down  her  jetty  ringlets  till  they  hid  her  flashing  eyes ; 
never  was  parliament  more  determined  on  carrying  a  measure 
into  execution. 

Early  on  May-day  morning,  we  prepared  our  crown  of  roses 
and  myrtle-leaves,  and  started  for  Honeysuckle  Cottage.  Al 
ready  I  had  become,  not  prime  minister,  but  prime  favorite  with 
the  queen  elect;  so  I  left  my  companions,  and  hurried  over  to  the 
cottage  by  a  by-path  through  the  fields,  to  apprize  Norah  of 
their  coming.  Gently  I  put  aside,  as  was  my  playful  habit,  the 
honeysuckles  from  before  the  window,  and  looked  in.  Never  shall 
I  forget  the  beautiful  picture  on  which  my  eyes  rested. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  a  pleasant  room.  The  furniture  was 
the  only  relic  they  had  preserved  of  their  old  home  in  the  far- 
off  city.  A  light  and  cheerful  carpet  was  upon  the  floor.  The 
pattern  was  a  running  vine  of  roses  and  green  leaves ;  and  the 
curtains  were  of  delicate,  fleecy-white  muslin.  In  the  centre 
of  the  room  was  a  round  mahogany  table,  and  on  a  smaller  ohe 
at  the  window  stood  Norah's  little  inlaid  writing-desk  and  work- 
box.  The  chairs  were  low  and  easy  ;  and  through  the  open  door, 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pleasant  bed- 


A   HUSKINd-PARTY   AT   RYETIELD.  257 

room,  with  its  carpet  of  the  same  cheerful  pattern,  and  Norah's 
little  straw  hat  and  blue  ribbons  lying  on  the  white  Marseilles 
quilt,  which  half  covered  the  low  but  richly-carved  rose-wood 
bedstead. 

There  was  a  tableau  vivant  in  the  little  parlor.  Three  per 
sons  composed  it.  The  first  was  Norah,  looking  more  beautiful 
than  I  had  ever  before  seen  her.  She  had  left  off  her  mourning, 
and  was  dressed  in  a  snowy  muslin,  confined  at  the  waist  with  a 
blue  sash.  Her  long  golden-brown  ringlets  floated  over  her 
graceful  shoulders,  and  half  hid  her  blushing  cheeks.  At  her 
feet  was  kneeling  a  gentleman,  with  full,  open  brow,  curling 
hazel  hair,  and  earnest,  pleading  hazel  eyes  —  no  other  than 
my  Uncle  Horace.  Leaning  over  them,  stood  the  tall,  graceful 
Widow  Lee,  with  a  hand  on  the  head  of  each 

"Yes,  Horace,"  I  heard  her  say,  "my  daughter  shall  be 
yours,  in  the  cool  pleasantness  of  the  Autumn.  She  is  my  all, 
Horace;  promise  me  that  she  shall  never  miss  a  mother's 
tenderness." 

"  God  knows,  dear  madam,"  said  Uncle  Horace,  fervently, 
"  that  Norah's  happiness  will  be  ten  thousand  times  dearer  than 
my  own ;  and  she  shall  never  want  for  anything  my  love  or  my 
toil  can  procure  her." 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  the  Widow  Lee,  and  tears  were  in  her 
eyes ;  "  I  believe  it,  and  God  bless  you  both,  my  children !  " 

Locking  back  upon  this  scene,  I  am  thankful  that,  graceless- 
child  as  I  generally  was,  I  did  have  the  grace  to  leave  the  win 
dow,  and  only  when  I  saw  the  rest  of  our  party  approaching  tre 
cottage  did  I  go  up  to  the  door  and  tap  timidly.  Mrs.  Leo 
herself  opened  it,  and  Norah,  though  there  were  tears  in  her 
22* 


258  A   HUSKING-PABTY   AT   RYEFIELD. 

eyes  and  blushes  on  her  cheeks,  still  received  me  with  her 
accustomed  gentle  and  affectionate  welcome. 

Norah  was  crowned  queen  of  the  May,  and  very  fair  and 
winsome  she  looked  in  her  white  robes,  and  her  May-day  gar 
land.  "  Like  an  angel,"  Grandma  said,  looking  out  of  the  door, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  as  we  passed  the  farm-house.  Norah 
leaned,  that  day,  on  Uncle  Horace's  arm ;  and  somehow  every 
one  seemed  to  know  that  they  were  betrothed,  and  that  there 
would  be  a  wedding  at  Honeysuckle  Cottage  in  the  early 
autumn. 

Mary  Andrews  tossed  her  cpquettish  head,  and  flirted  des 
perately  with  a  handsome  young  physician ;  and  yet  Horace 
did  n't  seem  to  feel  very  badly.  The  picnic  passed  off  delight 
fully.  Grandmother  wasn't  there  in  person,  but  she  sent  a 
representative,  in  the  shape  of  a  basket  —  large,  fat,  and  round, 
like  herself —  containing  a  supply  of  the  good  food  we  so  much 
loved.  There  were  such  nice  waffles  as  nobody  could  bake  but 
Grandma,  and  such  tender  cold  tongue,  and  dainty,  delicate 
slices  of  boiled  ham,  and  such  nice  cakes  and  comfits.  Truly 
Grandmother  ought  to  have  been  appointed  Her  Majesty's  Pur 
veyor  to  the  Household. 

Then  we  had  a  dance,  and  Norah  would  dance  with  nobody 
but  Uncle  Horace,  and  Uncle  Horace  with  nobody  but  Norah. 
0,  it  was  a  long,  bright,  beautiful  day;  and  it  was  a  long,  bright, 
beautiful  summer  which  followed  it.  The  wild-flowers  grew  and 
brightened,  and  the  wild  birds  sang,  and  the  land  was  merry 
with  the  voices  of  children. 

Norah  couldn't  take  very  long  walks,  but  Uncle  Horace 
&d  not  mind  that  much,  for  every  evening  found  him  sitting 


A  nUSKINQ-PABTY   AT   RYEFIELD.  259 

on  a  low  stool  at  her  feet,  and  she  would  pass  round  her  neck 
the  black  ribbon  of  her  guitar,  and  sing  to  him  until  the  stars 
rose,  and  the  moon  shone  down  upon  her  white  robe.  She  grew 
more  and  more  beautiful.  She  had  been  pale  formerly,  but  now 
a  sweet,  delicate  rose-tint  flushed  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
were  strangely  bright.  When  the  early  autumn  came,  her 
feet  could  no  longer  go  forth  over  the  pleasant  paths  they  had 
trod  together,  and  Mrs.  Lee  said,  "Norah  mustn't  marry 
then  —  she  must  wait  till  she  got  stronger.  She  was  n't  very 
well  now,  but  would  be  better  soon." 

And  Norah  smiled,  and  waited.  She  did  n't  suffer  at  all,  she 
said,  only  felt  languid ;  and  she  would  sit  all  day  in  her  low 
chair,  or  recline  on  the  lounge  by  the  window,  with  a  calm, 
sweet  face,  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Uncle  Horace  reaped  the 
waving  grain,  proud  man  as  he  was,  with  secret  tears  falling 
upon  the  sheaves.  He  would  steal  all  the  time  he  could,  from 
the  cares  of  his  daily  life,  to  sit  by  Norah's  side,  and  hold  her 
fair  white  hand  in  his.  Books  were  not  quite  so  plenty  then  as 
now,  but  it  was  an  age  of  truth,  and  there  was  not  much  glitter 
that  had  not  the  ring  of  the  true  metal.  He  never  wearied 
of  reading  to  his  "  little  darling,"  as  he  used  to  call  her,  the 
magnificent  conceptions  of  Shakspeare,  or  the  inspired  pages  of 
Scott,  with  their  gorgeous  word-painting.  And  Norah  would 
smile,  and  look  sweetly  happy  and  contented.  But,  one  day  in 
pleasant  September,  I  was  all  alone  with  her,  and,  looking  up 
from  her  lounge,  she  said,  "  Louise,  come  here."  I  went, 
and  kneeled  down  beside  her.  She  had  been  for  many  days  in 
an  uncommonly  playful  humor,  and  I  was  startled  to  see  tears 
on  the  fringes  of  her  eyelids. 


260  A   HUSKINQ-PARTY   AT   RYEFIELD. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  a  secret ;  —  can  you  keep  it  ?  " 

"  0  yes,  yes  —  true  as  I  live,"  answered  I,  in  the  ready 
phraseology  of  childhood.  She  smiled  mournfully,  and  then, 
parting  my  curls  with  her  thin  hand,  she  said, 

"I  am  dying,  Louise,  fading  with  the  leaves!  They  do  not 
know  it,  and  I  would  not  have  them.  For  myself,  I  do  not 
care.  There  was  a  time  when  I  longed  to  live  —  to  pass  my 
whole  life  by  Horace's  side  —  to  be  his  wife.  I  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  death.  I  rebelled  against  it.  But  I  am  a 
changed  girl  since  I  have  been  obliged  to  stay  here  in  this  little 
room.  I  have  watched  the  sun  set  and  moon  rise,  until,  out  of 
the  clouds,  I  saw  a  great  glory  —  Heaven  seemed  to  come 
nearer,  and  the  Highest  Love  overshadowed  me. 

"  Now  I  am  ready  to  go  —  I  sorrow  only  for  Horace ;  and  1 
tell  you  this  now,  because  you  can  remember  it,  in  part,  at 
least;  and  when  I  am  gone,  I  want  you  to  tell  him.  Tell 
him  I  knew  that  I  was  going,  and  all  my  sorrow  was  for 
him.  Tell  him  to  try  and  meet  me  beyond  the  clouds  and  the 
sunset;  and  that  I  want  him  to  think  of  me,  not  sorrowfully, 
not  as  her  who  should  have  been  the  wife  of  his  youth,  but  as  a 
blessed  spirit  gone  before  him  to  heaven.  Tell  him  to  love  some 
gentle  one  on  earth,  who  will  be  all  to  him  I  could  have  been, 
and  I  will  smile  on  him  when  the  stars  shine.  I  shall  not  be 
jealous.  He  will  have  love  enough  for  both1  of  us,  when  hope 
becomes  fruition,  and  he  sees  my  face  in  the  far-off  country. 
Tell  him  all  this,  darling,  and  you^-but,  dear  child,  are  you 
crying  ?  Was  poor  Norah  loved  so  well  ?  "  And,  drawing  my 
head  to  her  bosom,  she  soothed  me  with  more  than  a  mother's 
gentleness,  till  tears  subsided  into  sobs,  and  at  last,  wearied  out 


A   nUSKINQ-PARTY   AT   RYEFIELD.  261 

by  the  violence  of  my  emotion,  I  fell  asleep  there,  kneeling  on 
the  floor  by  her  side. 

But  weeks  passed  on,  and  a  change  for  the  better  seemed  to 
have  taken  place.  Norah's  eye  became  less  bright,  her  cheek 
less  deeply  flushed ;  and  we  almost  thought  our  lily-flower 
would  brighten  and  bloom  once  more  with  other  lilies,  in  the 
sunshine  of  another  summer.  Horace  talked  hopefully  of  the 
sweet  cottage  he  would  build,  and  the  roses  and  jasmine  she 
should  twine  over  its  porch  and  windows,  when  she  was  well ; 
"  for  you  know  you  are  better  already,"  he  would  add. 

Once  more  she  passed  over  her  shoulder  the  ribbon  of  her 
guitar,  and  played  lively,  cheerful  airs ;  though  she  was  too 
weak  to  sing  much,  but  she  would  laugh  and  say,  "  I  shall  be 
singing  in  a  few  weeks,  better  than  ever,"  and  we  did  n't  believe 
her  ! 

Mrs.  Lee's  face  brightened,  and  her  steps  grew  quick  and 
cheerful,  and  even  Grandmother,  when  she  used  to  come  to  the 
cottage,  and  bring  the  nice  little  things  that  Norah  loved,  would 
look  at  her  with  a  smile  on  her  kind,  motherly  face,  and  say 
that  "  it  was  a  lazy  little  girl,  who  liked  petting,  and  it  must 
come  over  after  its  own  cakes  pretty  soon."  And  Norah  would 
laugh  and  reply  that  indeed  she  had  n't  much  temptation  to  get 
well,  when  being  a  little  sick  made  every  one  so  good  to  her. 

And  now  it  was  the  last  quarter  of  the  October  moon,  and 
there  was,  according  to  time-honored  custom,  to  be  another 
husking-party  in  grandfather's  barn.  Grandma  had  objected  to 
this,  at  first,  for  the  sick  one's  sake  ;  but  then  no  one  desired  it 
so  strongly  as  Norah.  It  would  be  so  like  the  first  night  she 
came  among  them,  she  said ;  and  though  she  could  n't  go  to  the 


262  A   HUSKING-PARTY   AT   KYEFIELD. 

barn,  she  could,  at  least,  be  carried  to  the  house,  and  taste  somo 
of  the  nice  supper.  And  so  we  all  thought,  for  she  was  certainly 
getting  better  very  fast.  And  the  preparations  went  on. 

Once  more  the  tables  were  set  out  in  the  long  dining-room, 
and  once  more  the  board  groaned  beneath  the  choice  array  of 
tempting  viands.  The  barn-floor  was  swept  and  garnished,  and 
stored  high  with  the  golden  corn.  And  at  last  the  day  dawned 
clear  and  bright,  as  it  should  have  done ;  for  I  lay  awake  all 
night,  every  now  and  then  rising,  and  going  to  the  window  to 
watch  it. 

Early  in  the  morning,  Uncle  Horace  went  over  to  Honeysuckle 
Cottage,  and  brought  back  the  intelligence  that  Norah  wasn't 
quite  so  well,  but  still  hoped  to  be  able  to  come  over.  He  was 
going  back,  he  said,  to  spend  the  day.  He  would  take  her  over, 
if  she  could  come ;  and  if  not,  stay  with  her.  And  the  prepara 
tions  went  on. 

Evening  came,  and  with  it  the  expected  company.  Mary 
Andrews,  now  the  betrothed  wife  of  the  handsome  young  phy 
sician,  came,  leaning  on  her  lover's  arm.  They  were  all  there, 
young  and  old,  and  merriment  was  at  its  height.  The  corn  was 
nearly  husked,  and  we  were  about  to  adjourn  to  the  house,  when 
there  was  a  stir  at  the  door,  and  Uncle  Horace  appeared,  pale 
and  ghastly.  He  stood  silently  for  a  moment,  looking  upon  us, 
like  some  terrible  phantom ;  and  then  from  his  white  lips  fell 
the  words  —  "  Norah,  Norah  Lee  is  dead !  " 

There  was  one  quick  shriek  of  horror,  and  then  Grandmother 
started,  as  fast  as  her  trembling  limbs  would  carry  her,  for  the 
cottage.  Our  company  hurriedly  dispersed,  some  for  their  own 
homes,  and  some  for  the  house  of  mourning.  The  fair  girl  had 


A   IIUSKING-PARTY   AT   KYEFIELD.  263 

been  universally  buloved,  and  the  whole  village  wept.  The  sup 
per  was  left  untasted,  and  the  viands  of  the  party  became  the 
"meats  for  the  burial,"  —  and  this  was  the  last  "  husking-party 
at  Ryefiold." 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  that  Uncle  Horace  vowed  eternal  con 
stancy  to  Norah's  memory.  But  I  must  be  truthful.  Another 
gentle  and  dearly-loved  one  shares  the  little  cottage  he  planned 
at  the  dead  girl's  side ;  and  their  child,  who  sits  upon  his  knee 
at  twilight,  lifts  to  his  face  her  sweet  brown  eyes  and  pride  of 
golden  hair,  and  sometimes  the  tears  come  to  his  eyes,  as  he 
calls  her  by  her  name  — "  Norah."  But  the  mother  is  not 
jealous;  she,  too,  is  loved,  and  she  knows,  when  a  few  more 
twilights  shall  have  faded  into  night,  they  will  all  sit  down 
together,  in  a  land  where  twilight  never  comes  nor  shadows 
fall  —  even  heaAren  ' 


SPRING-TIME  RAIN. 


ALL  day  long  has  the  rain  beat  down, 

Slowly  beat  on  a  lonely  grave ; 
All  day  long,  'neath  the  gray  sky's  frown 

Beat  like  the  flood  of  a  briny  wave. 

Drops  have  beaded  the  meadow  grass, 
Drops  have  dashed  on  the  willow-tree, 

And  the  village  children  pattering  pass, 
A  pleasant  sight  in  the  rain  to  see. 

Flowers  are  bowing  their  heads  at  prayers, 
Birds  are  ringing  their  vesper  bell, 

Monodies  wild,  and  mournful  airs, 

From  viewless  harps  of  the  wind-sprites  swell. 

Still,  in  a  grave-yard  lone  and  old, 
Kiseth  a  tomb-stone  fair  and  white, 

Pillar  that  sculptured  seraphs  fold, 
Cloud  by  day  and  fire  by  night ! 

There,  where  the  grave-mound  groweth  green, 
Flowerets  spring  in  the  summer  sun, 

Roses  and  myrtle  and  eglantine 

Weave  a  wreath  round  the  white  head-stone. 


SPRING-TIME   RAIN.  265 

S;j  tiling  down  upon  shining  hair, 

Lieth  the  grave-dust  dark  and  dim  ; 
Down  on  the  brow  that  was  once  so  fair, 

Mouldering  round  each  snowy  limb. 

Never  a  fleck  of  the  sunshine  steals 

Into  the  grave  they  have  dug  so  deep  ; 
Never  a  ray  of  the  moon  reveals 

The  spot  where  an  angel  went  to  sleep. 

But  when  the  rain  of  the  spring  falls  down, 
She  comes  from  the  world  of  living  streams, 

Lighting  the  earth-life  bare  and  brown 
With  rosy  hues  from  the  land  of  dreams. 

By  and  by,  when  the  days  grow  long, 

I  will  lay  me  down  by  her  side, 
Hushed  to  sleep  by  the  wild-bird's  song, 

Floating  out  on  the  even-tide. 
23 


MY  AUNT   PATIENCE. 


IT  was  a  beautiful  summer  day.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Rye- 
field  had  never  looked  half  so  fair.  The  summer  roses  blushed  and 
trembled  like  bashful  maidens ;  and  over  the  tall  trees  flitted 
gay,  happy  birds,  all  singing  love-songs.  But,  perhaps,  you 
have  seen  just  such  days,  dear  reader,  when  the  blue  sky  seemed 
bluer,  and  the  green  fields  greener,  and  your  heart  sang  anthems 
of  joy,  to  which  all  the  world  went  keeping  time.  You  have 
seen  them,  if  you  have  loved  as  I  loved,  and  known  as  I  knew, 
that,  when  the  earth  slept  in  the  peace  of  the  summer  afternoon, 
another  shadow  would  fall  beside  your  own,  and  a  voice  you 
loved  make  music  in  your  ear. 

That  morning  I  had  risen  early.  I  wandered  here  and  there, 
with  the  one  dear  name  on  my  lips,  gathering  the  lush-red 
strawberries,  and  sorting  the  pale,  fragrant  flowers  into  Grand 
mother's  rich,  old-fashioned  china  vases.  At  last  I  dressed  my 
self,  and  descended  to  the  library.  It  wanted  yet  four  long  hours 
of  the  time  when  he  was  to  arrive ;  and  I  threw  myself  on  a 
lounge,  and  closed  my  eyes,  to  spend  the  time  as  best  I  might 
in  weaving  dreams  and  fancies  wherewith  to  furnish  my  heredi 
tary  "  Castles  in  Spain."  A  light  foot-fall,  so  light  that  it  did 
not  arouse  me,  passed  over  Grandmother's  Wilton  carpet ;  a  soft 
hand  was  laid  upon  my  brow,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  that  Aunt 
Patience  was  standing  beside  me. 


MY   AUNT   PATIENCE.  267 

She  was  a  singular,  and  yet  most  interesting  woman ;  and, 
hitherto,  she  had  seemed  to  me  as  one  dwelling  apart  from  our 
common  sympathies,  and  had  won  from  me  even  more  of  curiosity 
than  love.  She  was  tall,  and  very  slight,  with  soft,  brown  hair, 
banded  smoothly  about  her  pale  face.  She  seldom  spoke,  and, 
when  she  did,  her  voice  was  low  and  calm,  and  her  words  fell 
upon  the  ear  like  the  measured  cadences  of  mournful  music. 
And  yet  Aunt  Patience  had  not  always  seemed  thus.  Grandma 
had  told  me  of  a  time  when  her  face  looked  less  like  the  pictures 
of  the  saints,  and  more  like  one  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  court 
beauties,  full  of  human  love  and  joy,  ay,  and  of  human  error, 
too.  She  had  told  of  a  fair,  smooth  brow,  shaded  by  masses  of 
curls;  of  a  slight,  swaying,  and  graceful  figure;  clear,  starry 
blue  eyes ;  dainty  little  fingers,  and  a  voice  like  civilized  bird- 
notes.  But  Aunt  Patience  was  very  different  now.  I  had 
never  known  what  had  occasioned  the  change ;  but,  like  those 
buried  cities,  round  which  not  even  tradition  has  wove  her  gar 
ment  of  memories,  leaving  them  to  the  sceptre  of  that  mightier 
potentate,  the  Imagination,  I  felt  sure  that  Aunt  Patience  had 
a  history. 

Her  very  name  seemed  strangely  appropriate.  I  don't  think, 
in  her  whole  life,  she  had  ever  been  known  to  utter  a  murmur  or 
complaint ;  and  the  very  expression  of  her  face  was  that  of  one 
who  had  suffered  much,  and  grown  purer  under  the  pressure  of 
the  crown  of  thorns.  I  had  many  times  thought  she  seemed  to 
regard  me  with  unusual  tenderness ;  but  I  had  judged  only  from 
the  inflections  of  her  voice  and  the  brooding  warmth  in  her  quiet 
blue  eyes.  I  knw  it  on  this  pleasant  summer  morning,  when 
she  stood  beside  me,  with  her  hand  upon  my  hair.  "  So  you 


268  MY   AUNT   PATIENCE. 

think   you   love  Wilton   Mowbray,  my  little  girl  ? "  she  said, 
inquiringly,  yet  very  gently. 

"  Think  !  0,  Aunt  Patience,  I  know  I  love  him  !  I  would 
give  my  whole  life  to  make  him  happy  !  " 

"  Well,  child,  I  believe  it ;  and  yet  I  have  seen  in  you  a 
disposition  to  try  his  love,  to  excite  his  jealousy,  to  tyrannize  over 
him ;  and  I  have  felt  that,  loving  him  as  you  do,  and  acting  thus, 
you  were  standing  on  the  verge  of  a  fearful  precipice,  and  I  have 
longed  to  warn  you.  My  own  heart  has  a  history  whose  leaves 
no  human  eyes  have  ever  read.  Shall  I  tell  it  to  you,  this 
morning  ?  " 

There  was  a  kind  of  dimness  gathering  in  Aunt  Patience's 
eyes,  as  she  drew  an  easy-chair  to  the  library-window,  and  com 
menced  her  story.  I  was  lying  upon  the  lounge,  with  my  head 
in  her  lap,  and  her  hand  upon  my  hair. 

"I  have  been  much  interested  in  your  friend,  Wilton  Mow- 
bray,"  she  commenced,  "  very  much  interested,  because  he  bears 
so  close  a  resemblance  to  one  I  used  to  know  and  love.  In  his 
character  and  disposition,  I  mean,  for  his  face  is  not  at  all  simi 
lar.  You  have  never  before  heard  me  speak  of  Walter  Harding, 
the  lover  of  my  youth.  He  had  precisely  your  Wilton's  quick, 
sensitive,  impetuous  disposition ;  and  I,  though  you  would  never 
guess  it,  was  the  exact  counterpart  of  what  you  now  are,  —  gay, 
lively,  impulsive,  and  a  little  inclined  to  flirt.  Withal,  I  had 
more  than  your  share  of  pride ;  and  yet  I  loved  Walter  as  well 
as  woman  ever  loved  the  one  whom  she  chose  from  all  the  world 
to  guide  her  trembling  steps  along  the  uneven  paths  of  life, 
toward  the  great  end.  He  was  very  fond  of  me, — much  more  so 
than  I  deserved.  I  saw  that  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  annoy  him, 


MY   AUNT   PATIENCE.  269 

and  I  think  I  used  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Many  were  the 
bouquets  I  accepted,  and  the  smiles  I  returned,  from  others ;  and 
I  have  seen  his  cheek  flush,  and  his  lips  tremble,  until  any  other 
girl  would  have  feared  his  anger ;  but  I  knew  no  fear,  in  those 
days.  When  it  came  time  to  return,  I  used  to  step  up  to  him, 
and  say,  '  Are  you  ready,  Walter  ? '  He  would  look  at  me  a 
moment,  and  then  the  frown  would  pass  from  his  brow,  and, 
drawing  my  hand  through  his  arm,  he  would  exclaim,  in  those 
dear,  good  tones  of  his,  that  it  made  one's  heart  rejoice  to  hear, 
'  God  bless  you,  Patience,  for  a  dear,  cruel,  tormenting  little 
angel,  as  you  are ! '  and  then  he  would  walk  away  with  me,  just 
as  kind  and  tender  as  if  I  had  been  the  best  girl  in  the  world. 

"  But  there  came  a  time  when  I  tried  my  strength,  and  found 
it  wanting.  There  was  a  young  law-student  in  the  village. 
Most  persons  called  him  handsome,  far  handsomer  than  Walter, 
though  to  me  he  certainly  was  not.  All  his  airs  and  graces, 
clear,  white  complexion,  and  delicate  hands  and  feet,  were  not 
worth  to  me  one  single,  beaming,  truthful  look  from  Walter's 
dark  eyes.  And  yet  it  suited  my  purpose  to  flirt  with  him,  to 
appear  fond  of  him.  I  always — that  is,  always  when  Walter  was 
by — welcomed  him  with  empressement,  wore  the  flowers  he  gave 
me  in  my  hair,  and  played  his  favorite  songs.  At  last,  one 
evening  when  Walter  was  with  me,  he  came  with  a  card  for  me 
to  attend  a  ball,  which  was  to  come  off  the  next  evening.  Cotil 
lons  were  much  more  fashionable  then  than  now,  and  this  ball 
was  to  be  a  brilliant  affair.  Dancing  was  my  passion ;  but  Wal 
ter,  who  was  studying  for  the  ministry,  never  danced,  and  since 
I  had  known  him  I  had  almost  entirely  abandoned  it.  But  here 
was  afforded  a  fine  opportunity  to  tease  him,  gratify  my  inordi- 
23* 


270  MY   AUNT    PATIENCE. 

nate  love  of  fun,  and  constitute  myself  once  more  the  belle  of  a 
ball-room.  Heedless  of  Walter's  sad,  imploring  face,  I  accepted 
the  invitation,  and  Frank  Stanley  (that  was  the  student's  name) 
left  almost  immediately.  After  he  had  gone,  there  was  silence 
between  us  for  a  long  time.  At  last  Walter  broke  it. 

"  '  I  am  sorry,  Patience,'  he  said,  mildly,  '  that  you  should 
have  carried  your  trifling  quite  so  far.  Of  course  you  will  not 
go  to  this  ball,  and  it  will  disarrange  Mr.  Stanley's  plans,  and, 
perhaps,  mortify  him,  to  receive  a  note  of  regrets  now ! ' 

"  '  And  who  says  I  shan't  go  to  the  ball  ? '  I  asked,  angrily,  for 
my  naturally  quick  temper  was  aroused  by  his  tone  of  unwonted 
authority. 

"  '  Who  says  it,  Patience  ?  Why,  I  think  your  own  innate 
good  sense  will  say  that  the  betrothed  bride  of  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel  should  not  be  found  in  the  ball-room  ! ' 

"  '  Well,'  I  retorted,  '  my  own  good  sense  says  nothing  of  the 
kind.  It  does  say  that,  even  if  I  've  got  to  wear  the  surplice 
after  marriage,  it 's  very  ridiculous  of  you  to  expect  me  to  assume 
ministerial  obligations  beforehand.  And  it  does  say  that  nobody 
knows  of  our  engagement  now,  and  I  don't  want  they  should,  for 
we  can't  be  married  in  any  reasonable  time ;  and  so  it  becomes  a 
matter  of  necessity  that  I  should  go  to  this  ball,  for,  of  course,  I 
could  not  give  any  excuse,  without  giving  the  true  one.' 

"  '  Well,  Patience,'  he  said,  with  a  calmness  and  forbearance 
that  I  hated  then  as  much  as  I  admired  it  afterwards,  '  well, 
Patience,  I  had  not  thought  to  learn  that  you  are  so  much 
ashamed  of  your  betrothal  to  me  that,  rather  than  have  it  known, 
you  would  commit  what  seems  to  me  a  sin,  and  what  even  you 
cannot  regard  as  less  than  an  impropriety  ;  but,  darling,'  and,  aa 


MY   AUNT   PATIENCE.  271 

he  spoke,  he  gazed  tenderly  into  my  face  with  his  dark  eyes, 
and  drew  my  proud,  rebellious  head  to  his  bosom,  'my  own 
darling,  I  will  not  chide  you ;  I  am  so  sure  you  did  not  mean 
it.  You  shall  drive  with  me  into  the  country  to-morrow,  and  we 
will  not  return  until  it  is  too  late  for  this  affair.' 

" '  Shall  I,  indeed,  Mr.  Harding  ?  Is  it  you  who  says  "  shall " 
to  me  ?  Pray  remember  the  vow  to  obey  is  yet  in  the  future. 
But  surely  you  don't  mean  it,  now  ?  You  would  n't  take  my 
humble  self  into  the  country,  would  you  ?  What  a  pity  that  I 
shall  have  to  decline  the  honor ! ' 

" '  Patience,'  he  said  once  more,  and  this  time  his  tone  was 
very  serious,  '  Patience,  answer  me  truly,  do  you  mean  to  attend 
this  ball  ? ' 

" '  Yes,  sir ;  I  truly  do  mean  to  attend  this  ball ! ' 

"  '  Then,  Patience,  I  must  tell  you  candidly  what  the  result  will 
be.  It  will  terminate  our  engagement.  I  have  loved  you,  God 
only  knows  how  well, —  to  idolatry,  I  have  feared  sometimes.  I 
have  borne  patiently  with  your  caprices  for  a  long  time,  suffered 
you  to  follow  in  all  things  your  own  inclinations,  because  I  had  a 
firm  faith  that  your  heart  was  right,  and  that,  in  spite  of  all,  you 
truly  loved  me,  and  would  seek  to  make  me  happy.  But,  if  you 
cannot  give  up  so  small  a  thing  as  this  foolish  ball  for  my  sake, — 
if  you  prefer  its  gaud  and  glitter  to  a  day  of  quiet  pleasure 
with  me  in  the  country,  —  then,  alas  !  I  must  yield  to  the  convic 
tion  that  you  never  loved  me,  and  go  my  own  way  in  solitude.' 

"  Louise,  can  you  comprehend  the  enigma  of  my  behavior  ?  At 
that  moment  he  seemed  to  me  truly  noble.  I  loved  him  more 
than  ever.  I  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  thrown  myself 
into  his  arms,  and  told  him  the  simple  truth,  that  one  word  of 


272  MY   AUNT   PATIENCE. 

love  from  him  was  worth  more  to  me  than  all  the  balls  and 
gayeties  in  the  world.  But,  alas  for  it !  that  evil  spirit  of  pride 
was  regnant  in  my  heart.  I  had  tried  his  love  before.  I  wished 
to  test  it  yet  once  more,  to  make  still  another  display  of  my 
power  over  him.  So  I  masked  my  aching  heart,  with  an  air  of 
haughty  coldness,  and  answered,  '  Well,  sir,  if  I  am  henceforth 
to  enter  a  state  of  serfdom,  to  have  no  will  of  my  own,  and  if 
your  boasted  love  for  me  is  merely  a  desire  to  reduce  my  spirit 
to  subjection,  the  sooner  we  part,  and  you  go  your  own  way,  the 
better.' 

" '  Nay,  Patience,  my  poor  proud  child,  I  will  not  take  your 
answer  now.  You  will  see  all  this  differently  to-morrow.  I  do 
not  think  you  will  go  to  the  ball ;  and  I  fancy  we  shall  have,  if 
not  the  ride  into  the  country,  at  least  a  happy  evening  at  home. 
I  can't  help  thinking  you  love  me,  Patience ;  for  I  have  a  pleas 
ant  memory  of  a  light  step  by  my  bed-side  during  the  weary 
watches  of  a  terrible  illness,  of  a  gentle  hand  upon  my  brow,  and 
sorrowful  blue  eyes  full  of  tears.  Patience,  your  love  has  been 
more  than  life  to  me.  I  cannot  give  you  up  to-night.  To-mor 
row,  —  we  shall  see,  when  it  comes,  what  fate  comes  with  it.' 
And  he  would  have  raised  my  fingers  to  his  lips,  but  I  crushed 
the  dear  hand  and  threw  it  from  me ;  and  he  went  out." 

My  Aunt  Patience  paused  in  her  recital,  and  her  tears  fell  fast 
upon  my  brow  and  my  braided  hair.  "  But  you  did  n't  go  to 
the  ball,  Aunty  ?  "  I  inquired,  with  eager  interest. 

"  Yes,  Louise !  Morning  came.  I  had  passed  a  sad,  restless 
night ;  but  my  pride  was  not  one  whit  abated ;  and  hardly  to 
purchase  my  salvation  would  I  have  sat  down  and  written  to 
Walter  that  I  would  accept  his  invitation  to  go  into  the  coun- 


MY   AUNT    PATIENCE.  273 

try.  He  never  came  near  me  all  day,  and  toward  night  I  began 
to  dress  for  the  ball.  I  brushed  out  the  long  curls  which  Walter 
so  loved  to  twine  around  his  caressing  fingers,  and  crowned  them 
with  a  wreath  of  starry  cape-jasmine.  I  put  on  a  dress  of  deep 
azure  silk,  which  suited  my  complexion  exquisitely.  My  arms 
and  neck  were  bare,  and  a  glance  at  my  mirror  assured  me  that 
I  had  never  before  looked  so  beautiful.  Well,  Frank  Stanley 
came  for  me,  and  I  went.  I  do  believe  I  hated  him  then. 
Somehow  my  purblind  vision  could  not  or  would  not  see  my  own 
faults,  and  unjustly  I  blamed  him  for  coming  between  me  and 
Walter.  But  I  determined  that  I  would  at  least  seem  happy ;  so 
I  exerted  myself  to  appear  as  lively  as  possible.  My  hand  was 
engaged  for  every  set,  and  I  danced  as  gayly  as  if  my  heart  had 
never  experienced  a  single  pang. 

"  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  I  threw  a  shawl  over  my  shoul 
ders,  and  wandered  out  by  myself  into  the  conservatory.  My 
heart  throbbed  with' a  wild  longing  to  hurry  home,  to  seek  Wal 
ter,  and  implore  him  to  forgive  the  wanderer,  and  take  her  to  his 
heart  once  more.  Had  I  obeyed  the  impulse,  all  might  yet  have 
been  well.  I  drew  my  shawl  around  me,  and  in  a  moment  more 
I  should  have  started ;  but  I  heard  footsteps  near  at  hand,  and, 
looking  up,  Frank  Stanley,  my  gallant  of  the  evening,  stood 
beside  me.  I  did  not  hear  half  he  said,  but  I  managed  to  under 
stand  that  he  wished  me  to  marry  him.  In  the  mood  of  remorse 
ful  tenderness  toward  Walter  which  then  possessed  me,  I  could 
scarcely  listen  to  him  with  civility  and,  though  I  well  knew  that 
I  had  given  him  sufficient  encouragement  to  warrant  his  proposal, 
my  rejection  was  brief,  haughty  and  almost  bitter,  unsoftened  by 
a  single  word  of  esteem  or  regret.  He  stood  before  me  for  a 


274  MY   AUNT   PATIENCE. 

moment  with  compressed  lips  and  frowning  brow,  and  then 
recollecting  himself,  he  smiled  bitterly,  and,  offering  his  arm, 
said,  '  At  least  I  may  hope  for  the  honor  of  conducting  you  to 
supper,  Miss  Evelyn  ? ' 

"  I  took  his  arm  in  silence.  His  tone  convinced  me  that  I  had 
made  for  myself  a  bitter,  life-long  enemy ;  and  my  conscience 
said,  justly.  0,  that  was  a  weary,  wretched  evening  for  me  !  I 
got  home  at  length,  and,  tearing  off"  the  ornaments  which  mocked 
my  misery,  I  threw  myself  upon  a  lounge,  and  sobbed  myself  to 
sleep. 

"  The  next  morning  I  heard  the  door-bell  ring,  and  in  a  moment 
the  servant  entered  my  room.  She  held  in  her  hands  an  ex 
quisite  little  ebony  casket,  such  an  one  as  I  had  long  desired  to 
possess.  I  took  it  from  her,  and  eagerly  opened  it.  It  was  very 
beautiful,  lined  with  quaintly-carved  satin-wood,  and  soft,  rose- 
colored  satin ;  but  I  did  not  heed  its  beauty,  or  rejoice  in  its  pos 
session.  It  contained  a  little  locket,  with  my  miniature,  which  I 
had  given  Walter,  and  a  few  letters  I  had  written  him  from  time 
to  time,  when  we  chanced  to  be  separated  for  a  day  or  two. 
'  Mr.  Harding  bade  me  give  you  this,'  said  the  girl,  as  she 
handed  me  a  little  note  in  his  well-known  chirography.  I  tore  it 
open. 

"  '  Patience,'  it  said,  '  Patience,  I  have  loved  you  as  no  other 
will  ever  love  you  again.  But  why  do  I  use  the  past  tense  ?  I 
do  love  you  as  fondly  as  ever ;  but  your  course  last  evening  has 
shown  me  that  you  do  not  wish  to  be  my  wife,  and  far  be  it 
from  me  to  claim  an  unwilling  bride.  You  will  accept  this  little 
casket,  won't  you,  Patience,  as  a  parting  gift  ?  I  have  heard  you 
wish  for  one  like  it,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  see  it,  when  far 


MY   AUNT   PATIENCE. 

away  from  her  for  whose  use  I  intended  it.  I  would  fain  have 
kept  your  picture  and  your  letters,  but  I  dared  not.  They  were 
too  dear.  I  leave  town  to-day,  and  I  want  to  bid  you  good-by. 
Will  you  come  down  and  speak  to  me?  Dear,  beautiful 
Patience,  —  treasure  I  once  thought  to  call  my  own,  —  God  bless 
you ! ' 

"  For  a  single  brief  moment  of  indecision,  I  held  the  letter  in 
my  hands.  My  heart  pleaded  wildly  to  go  and  kneel  at  his  feet, 
and  weep  out  my  wrong  and  my  penitence,  and  see  if  haply,  even 
then,  I  might  not  be  forgiven ;  but  pride  triumphed.  I  drew  my 
writing-desk  toward  me,  and  wrote  : 

"  '  I  am  surprised,  Mr.  Harding,  at  the  acuteness  which  enables 
you  to  divine  my  wishes  so  readily.  I  trust  the  attachment 
which  can  so  easily  relinquish  its  object  will  not  be  difficult  to 
overcome.  For  your  kindness  in  procuring  me  this  casket,  I  am 
infinitely  obliged ;  but  you  must,  of  necessity,  excuse  my  accept 
ing  it,  as  it  is  a  present  of  too  great  value  for  a  lady  to  receive 
from  any  but  her  lover.  Enclosed  you  will  find  your  miniature 
and  letters,  and  a  certain  emerald  ring,  the  pledge  of  a  tie  now 
broken.  You  will  excuse  me  from  coming  downr  as  I  have  a 
head-ache  this  morning.  I  wish  you  God-speed  on  your  journey, 
long  life  and  happiness,  and  remain  your  friend, 

'  PATIENCE  EVELYN.' 

"  He  left  the  house..  I  heard  his  quick  tread  upon  the  gravelled 
walk,  and,  throwing  myself  upon  the  bed,  I  wept  such  tears  of 
heart-breaking  love,  and  anguish,  and  penitence,  as  one  can  weep 
but  once  in  a  lifetime.  He  left  the  casket  upon  the  table.  It  is 


276  MY   AUNT   PATIENCE. 

the  only  token  I  have  of  the  fair  past,  whose  paths  ray  feet  once 
trod.  His  letters,  his  miniature,  the  engagement-ring,  all  were 
gone.  I  have  never  seen  him  since.  Others,  rich  and  noble, 
knelt  at  my  feet ;  but  the  love  of  my  heart  was  crushed,  and  it 
never  bloomed  again.  It  is  twenty  years  since  that  day,  Louise, 
—  twenty  long,  sorrowful  years,  —  and  not  once  have  I  failed  to 
whisper  his  name  in  my  prayers,  though  for  half  that  time  he  has 
been  the  husband  of  another." 

"  But  surely,  surely,"  I  cried,  "  he  cannot  love  her,  after  all 
his  love  for  you !  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  my  Aunt  Patience,  sadly.  "  I  hope  he 
loves  her ;  I  hope  they  are  happy.  I  have  prayed  that  they 
might  be.  He  must  have  deemed  me  unworthy  of  a  thought.  I 
have  told  you  this  sad  story,  dear  child,  that  you  might  take 
warning  by  my  errors.  I  have  seen  in  you  the  same  spirit  that 
has  ruined  the  happiness  of  my  own  lifetime.  Pray  God  that 
you  may  never  carry  with  your  own  hands  such  desolation  into 
all  your  future."  And,  with  a  soft  kiss  upon  my  brow,  Aunt 
Patience  glided  from  the  room.  How  I  had  wronged  her !  —  I, 
who  had  thought  her  cold,  thankless  and  unloving.  How  my 
heart  did  homage  to  the  mute,  uncomplaining  forbearance  of  her 
mighty  sorrow ! 


•Reader,  my  story  has  a  sequel.  That  afternoon,  as  we  sat  in 
the  dining-room,  luxuriating  over  Grandmother's  delicious  early 
tea,  Wilton  Mowbray  said,  as  he  thoughtfully  swayed  his  tea 
spoon  back  and  forth,  «  Louise,  did  I  ever  tell  you  of  a  kind 
friend  of  mine,  the  Rev.  Walter  Harding  ?  He  is  such  a  gentle- 


MY   AUNT   PATIENCE.  277 

man,  I  'm  sure  you  'd  like  him,  —  a  nice,  middle-aged  man.  He 
lost  his  wife  a  few  weeks  since ;  a  noble,  excellent  woman  she 
was ;  but  I  don't  think  he  feels  her  loss  as  much  as  if  they  had 
had  more  sympathies  in  common.  He  knows  of  our  engagement, 
you  mad-cap,  and  somehow  he  has  got  the  idea  in  his  head  that 
you  have  common  sense,  and  know  enough  to  choose  a  companion 
for  his  only  child,  a  sweet  little  girl,  with  large,  thoughtful  eyes, 
like  her  father's  own." 

"  How  would  I  do  ? "  said  Aunt  Patience,  looking  up  from  her 
tea,  with  her  calm,  pale  face. 

"  You,  Aunt  Patience !  "  and  Wilton  smiled ;  "  why,  you 
would  do  capitally ;  but  surely  you  would  n't  leave  your  home, 
and  go  there  in  the  position  of  half-governess  and  half-com 
panion  ? " 

"  Yes,  Wilton.  I  used  to  know  Walter  Harding,  and  for  the 
sake  of  our  old  friendship,  I  will  gladly  take  care  of  his  child ; 
on  the  one  condition,  that  you  will  not  let  him  know  who  I  am. 
My  name  is  Patience  Cleveland  Evelyn,  and  he  must  only  know 

• 

me  as  Miss  Cleveland." 

When  we  chanced  to  be  left  alone,  I  clasped  my  arms  round 
my  aunt's  neck,  and  exclaimed,  joyfully,  "  0,  I  am  so  glad ! 
Now  you  will  marry  Walter  Harding,  after  all;  and  0,  you'll  bo 
so,  so  happy !  " 

But  it  was  a  pensive  smile  with  which  my  aunt  answered  me, 
and  she  said  very  calmly,  "  0,  no,  Louise.  You  have  jumped  at 
a  very  unwarrantable  conclusion.  When  I  parted  with  Walter 
Harding,  I  was  eighteen  years  old,  —  almost  a  child,  —  and  very 
handsome.  Twenty  years  have  passed  since  then,  and  the  faded 
and  sorrowful  woman  of  thirty-eight  bears  no  trace  of  the 
24 


278  MY  AUNT  PATIENCE. 

maiden  of  eighteen.  No,  dear  child,  Walter  Harding  will  never 
recognize  me.  I  am  going  to  him  because  I  did  him  a  great 
wrong  once ;  and,  if  I  can  make  some  slight  amendment  by 
bestowing  on  his  child  a  mother's  care,  I  will  bless  God  for  the 
privilege ! " 

Walter  Harding  met  his  old  love  without  one  single  faint  sus 
picion  that  the  quiet,  middle-aged  lady  before  him  had  ever 
crossed  his  path  in  earlier  years.  He  never  dreamed  that  head 
had  lain  in  other  days  "upon  his  breast,  or  that  small  hand 
trembled  in  the  caressing  love-clasp  of  his  own.  To  him,  she  was 
his  daughter's  governess,  and  no  more.  And  yet  she  was  ten 
times  worthier  of  his  love  than  in  those  other  days,  when  it  had 
been  his  proudest  ambition  to  call  her  his  own.  Her  heart  had 
been  chastened  and  subdued  by  suffering,  her  mind  matured  and 
expanded  by  time  and  culture,  and  her  whole  character  elevated 
by  the  beauty  of  holiness.  She  devoted  herself  to  her  little 
charge  with  all  a  mother's  tenderness,  and  Winnie  Harding  soon 
learned  to  love  the  gentle  stranger  even  more  fondly  than  the 
lost  mother,  who  had  manifested  far  less  sympathy  in  her  child 
ish  joys  and  sorrows. 

One  night,  when  my  aunt  had  spent  about  six  months  in  the 
family,  she  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  usual  hour,  to  put  the  little 
Winnie  to  bed,  when  her  old  lover  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon 
her  arm.  "  Miss  Cleveland,"  he  said,  "will  you  not  return  again 
to  the  parlor  ?  I  have  a  new  poem  I  wish  to  read  you." 
"  Certainly,  sir,  if  you  would  like,"  was  the  reply ;  .and  she 
passed  out  of  the  room.  I  believe  there  was  a  thrill  at  her 
heart,  that  night,  as  she  heard  the  little  one  say  her  prayers,  and 
then  sang  her  to  sleep.  I  think  her  hand  trembled  as  she  lifted 


MY  AUNT  PATIENCE.  279 

the  latch,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  entered  alone  the  pres 
ence  of  him  she  used  to  love  so  fondly.  The  poem  he  wished  to 
read  was  Evangeline,  and  his  masterly  intonation  made  that 
beautiful  history  of  a  faithful  love,  long  disappointed,  and 
rewarded  at  last  only  in  death,  strangely  musical.  When  he 
concluded,  he  looked  at  his  companion,  and  her  eyes  were '.  dim 
with  tears. 

"  Do  you  know,  Miss  Cleveland,"  he  asked,  suddenly,  "  do  you 
know  those  blue  eyes  of  yours  have  a  look  in  them  strangely  like 
those  of  one  I  knew  and  loved  once  ?  Once,  did  I  say,  •*—  I  love 
her  yet,  —  I  have  always  loved  Patience  Evelyn,  and  always 
shall.  I  heard,  years  ago,  that  she  was  married  to  another,  but  I 
have  never  ceased  to  love  her  as  of  old ;  and  sometimes  I  have 
felt  almost  sure  that  she  would  come  back  to  me.  You  remind 
me  of  her  in  more  ways  than  one.  It  is  singular,  very  singular, 
is  n't  it  ?  but  sometimes  I  have  fancied  your  voice  was  like  hers, 
particularly  when  you  were  animated  at  anything.  I  have 
dreamed,  too,  that,  if  you  would  promise  to  stay  with  me,  and 
share  my  life  always,  I  might  be  happy  once  more,  —  as  happy, 
almost,  as  she  would  have  made  me.  I  suppose  we  are  both  too 
old  now  for  vows  and  protestations,  but  I  do  believe  I  love  you 
truly ;  and  you,  Miss  Cleveland,  —  will  you  share  the  old  man's 
home  ?  " 

My  aunt  had  listened  in  joy  and  wonder ;  but  when  he  closed, 
her  cheek  was  suffused  with  blushes,  her  eyes  with,  tears.  She 
threw  herself  at  his  feet,  and,  when  he  would  have  raised  her,  she 
cried,  impulsively,  "  No,  no ;  let  me  kneel !  It  is  time  I  knelt  at 
Walter  Harding's  feet,  and  besought  forgiveness  of  the  true 
heart  I  have  twice  won.  Walter,  do  not  hate  me!  I  am 


280  MY   AUNT   PATIENCE. 

Patience  Cleveland  Evelyn !  I  never  married,  never  loved 
another,  Walter ;  and  even  when  we  parted,  my  heart  was  break 
ing  for  your  love.  Can  you  forgive  me,  Walter  ?  " 

I  suppose  my  Aunt  Patience  pleaded  not  vainly,  for  when  next 
I  saw  her  she  was  Walter  Harding's  wife  ;  his  child  was  cling 
ing  to  her  knees  and  they  were  happy  ! 


DOMESTIC  ECONOMY. 


WE  have  learned  something  new,  this  week, —  new  to  us,  at 
least,  —  that  it 's  really  a  bonafide  disgrace  for  a  young  lady  to 
do  house-work.  Why,  she  may  toil  till  her  delicate  fingers  are 
blistered  in  rolling  nine-pins ;  she  may  walk  over  half  the  streets 
in  the  city,  or  fatigue  herself  with  music-lessons  for  which  she 
has  not  the  slightest  taste ;  but,  if  she  would  not  lose  caste,  let 
her  avoid  the  kitchen,  as  she  would  a  pestilence.  No  matter 
how  the  beaded  drops  of  sweat  may  stand  on  her  mother's  brow ; 
no  matter  how  that  mother's  wearied  head  may  throb,  or  her 
tired  limbs  ache  for  repose !  You  may  pity  her,  you  may  be 
very  sorry,  —  I  don't  know  as  that 's  unfashionable, —  but  beware 
how  you  lift  her  burden  with  the  tips  of  your  fingers ! 

No  matter  how  bewitching  may  be  that  little  close  cap  tied 
over  your  rich  hair,  how  neat  and  pretty  the  little  white  apron 
which  you  are  fastening  over  that  gingham  morning-dress, — take 
them  off,  throw  them  away ;  for  it 's  "  so  unfashionable  "  to  be 
seen  in  the  kitchen,  and  a  fashionable  acquaintance  might  chance 
to  enter,  and  discover  you  in  those  badges  of  the  disgraceful  occu 
pation  ! 

No  matter  how  your  heart  aches  to  see  that  mother  looking 
so  tired,  no  matter  how  your  own  enfeebled  frame  gives  evidence 
of  a  want  of  exercise ;  't  will  never  do  to  bo  unfashionable ! 
24* 


282  DOMESTIC    ECONOMY. 

For  exercise,  you  can  go  to  a  party,  and  dance  half  the  night ; 
after  all,  your  mother  can  but  die,  and  the  cold  church-yard  sod 
will  lie  soft  above  that  throbbing  brow,  and  for  earth's  weary 
ones  there  is  a  glorious  rest  in  heaven ! 

We  didn't  know,  till  now,  that  "  'twould  n't  do  "  to  take  prac 
tical  lessons  in  domestic  economy;  and  we  have  some  dim, 
shadowy  recollections  of  the  theory  of  clear-starching  and  iron 
ing,  and  dusting  parlors,  that  we  shall  very  carefully  conceal, 
lest  they  should  disgrace  us  forever  in  the  eyes  of  fashionable 
society.  We  used  to  think  women  —  I  beg  Mrs.  Grundy's 
pardon,  ladies — looked  very  lovely  when  they  were  trying  to 
lighten  some  dear  one's  toil,  and  flitting  round,  like  a  birdie  in  the 
home-cage,  with  a  gush  of  song  trilling  on  their  bright  lips ; 
but,  0  dear !  of  course  we  must  change  our  opinion  now,  since 
we  are  taught  that  it  is  so  dreadfully  old-fashioned.  Even  the 
Bible  is  getting  now-a-days  to  be  considered  in  some  circles  an 
old-fashioned  book, —  very  nice  in  its  way,  to  be  sure,  but  then  so 
old-fashioned,  just  suited  to  the  days  of  spinning-wheels  and 
home-made  linen. 

Were  it  not  for  this,  we  might  have  suggested  King  Solomon's 
picture  of  a  good  wife ;  but  that,  you  know,  is  out  of  date  now. 
People  are  not  expected  to  be  wives,  but  brides  and  married 
ladies. 

Though,  to  be  sure,  we  never  could  have  learned  all  this  alone, 
unaided,  we  never  should  have  invented  the  nice  distinction  by 
which  it  becomes  proper  and  fashionable  for  a  father  or  brother 
to  toil  in  his  counting-room  like  a  very  slave,  but  dreadfully 
outre  for  a  young  lady  to  go  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  furnace  or 
frying-pan ! 


DOMESTIC   ECONOMY.  283 

To  be  sure,  had  no  one  informed  us,  we  should  have  thought  it 
the  better  way  to  strive  to  scatter  fresh  heart-flowers  in  the  path 
where  dear  feet  must  walk,  and  lighten  the  toil  of  one  we  loved, 
by  the  help  of  fair,  white  hands ;  but,  now  that  we  have  learnt 
better,  we  are  amazed  to  see  what  an  ignorant  little  body  we 
were ;  and  we  take  this  opportunity  to  impress  it  on  your  minds, 
fair  readers,  that  you  can  violate  the  spirit  of  every  command 
ment  in  the  decalogue  with  more  impunity  than  you  can  in  the 
least  degree  venture  to  be  unfashionable ! 


LAURA  TO  PETRARCH. 


ALAS,  alas  !  bound  by  a  tie  I  hate, 

And  forced  to  call  the  man  I  scorn  my  lord, 
Thou  canst  not  wonder  that  I  curse  my  fate, 

And  wildly  dream  about  each  blessed  word 
In  golden  days  of  old  spoke  by  thy  lips, 

While  Cupid  lurked  'mong  beds  of  passion-flowers, 
Ere  yet  my  life's  sunshine  had  met  eclipse, 

Or  I  had  measured  with  my  prayers  the  hours  ! 

Thou  canst  not  wonder  that,  in  looking  back, 

I  pour  out  blood  for  tears  along  the  path, 
And  sprinkle  drops  upon  each  once  fair  track, 

Now  blackened  by  the  Simoom's  deadly  wrath. 
And  yet,  0,  what  am  I,  that  make  my  moan  ? 

A  woman,  with  her  hair  to  silver  turned  ; 
A  bird,  whom  all  its  mates  have  left  alone  ; 

A  vase,  whence  all  the  roses  have  been  burned  :' 

A  seed  left  choking  in  some  stony  ground, 

I  fittest  liken  to  my  wretched  plight ; 
A  cry,  a  moment  heard,  then  deeply  drowned, 

By  dash  of  waves,  on  Pluto's  shores  of  night ! 
I  see  thee  climbing  up  Fame's  rugged  height, 

And  know  thy  heart  sends  after  mine  a  cry, 
As  traveller,  in  some  fairy  land  bedight, 

Amid  its  flowers  gives  utterance  to  a  sigh  ! 


LAURA   TO   PETRARCH.  285 

The  bridal-roses,  bound  about  my  brow, 

A  crown  of  thorns  I  wear  for  thee  this  hour  ; 
The  winter  moon,  slow-sailing,  lights  thee  now, 

While  o'er  my  path  fierce  waves  of  baptism  lower. 
Time  was,  I  decked  my  heart  and  spread  my  feast, 

And  called  thee  gayly  to  my  rustic  board,  — 
As  sceptred  monarch,  in  the  far-off  East, 

Shows  to  some  cherished  guest  his  glittering  hoard. 

And  thou  didst  come  :  that  simple  feast  the  last, 

Those  words  of  love  the  only  glory  left, 
Of  all  the  mocking  radiance  of  the  past, 

To  gild  the  life  of  hope  and  light  bereft. 
But,  as  the  dead  Christ  crowns  some  funeral  pile, 

And  crosses  gleam  through  mists  of  vanished  years, 
So  I  will  give  my  life  to  shrine  thy  smile, 

And  pave  thy  future  with  my  woman's  tears ! 


THE   SCOTCH  PASTOR'S  BRIDE. 


"  COME  hither,  Annie ;"  and  Lord  Maxwell's  fair  daughter 
glided  to  his  side,  and  sat  down  on  a  stool  at  his  feet.  It  was 
a  pleasant  scene,  —  that  quaint  old  drawing-room,  with  its  dark 
cornices  of  richly-carved  oak,  its  chair-covers  and  tapestry 
wrought  in  the  most  approved  fashion  of  our  grandmothers' 
days,  its  black-walnut  reading-desk  with  the  large  family  Bible 
chained  on  it,  and  the  hassock  standing  before  it  on  which  Lord 
Maxwell's  chaplain,  the  young  and  godly  George  Herbert,  was 
wont  to  kneel  at  hours  of  morning  and  evening  prayer.  In  a 
high  arm-chair  sat  Lord  James  Percy  Maxwell,  a  worthy  repre 
sentative  of  the  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  with  his  flowing 
wig,  his  bright  knee-buckles,  and  blue  coat  and  golden  buttons. 
At  his  feet  nestled  the  sweet  and  winsome  Annie. 

We  are  sorry,  for  the  romance  of  the  thing,  dear  reader,  that 
we  cannot  tell  you  Annie  Maxwell  was  peerlessly  beautiful ;  but 
we  must  content  ourselves  with  saying,  in  broad  Scotch,  that 
"  she  was  a  sweet  and  sonsie  lassie." 

Her  eyes  were  very  blue,  and  their  gentle  mirth  was  softened 
into  a  look  of  demure  propriety  by  their  long,  golden  fringes. 
Her  brow  was  neither  high  nor  low,  though  it  was  sweet 
and  womanly;  and  her  hair,  of  a  rich  brown,  was  brushed 
smoothly  away  from  her  sunny  face,  and  knotted  behind  with  a 


THE   SCOTCH    PASTOR'S   BRIDE.  287 

black  ribbon.  Her  close-fitting  dress  of  blue  merino  suited 
exquisitely  well  her  clear,  soft  complexion ;  and,  altogether,  she 
was  as  winsome,  cheery  a  little  maiden  as  ever  graced  hall  or 
cottage  ;  and  so  thought  Lord  Maxwell,  as,  with  her  hands 
crossed  over  his  knee,  she  sat  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

"  Annie,  pet  bird,  how  would  you  like  to  be  married  ?  "  The 
girl  said  nothing,  but  the  blush  deepened  on  her  cheek,  and  a 
half-smile  played  about  her  rose-bud  mouth.  "  Say,  darling, 
would  you  not  like  to  be  mistress  of  some  stately  castle,  and  be 
guided  through  life  by  some  kindly  hand  ?  " 

"  Nay,  father,  dear,"  —  and  now  the  smile  faded  from  about 
her  lips,  —  "  nay,  father,  ask  me  not  to  leave  you ;  do  not  send 
me  away  from  Maxwell  Grange,  for  I  fain  would  dwell  hero 
always ! " 

"  Nay,  darling,"  —  and,  with  a  fond  pride,  he  smoothed  back 
her  sunny  hair,  —  "nay,  but  you  must  leave  me  some  time,  or, 
Annie," — and  his  voice  grew  solemn, — "some  time  I  must  leave 
you,  and  I  would  not  that  it  should  be  to  loneliness.  Annie,  my 
child,  I  am  an  old  man,  and  must  soon  die." 

But  she  twined  her  white  arms  round  his  neck,  and  besought 
him  not  to  leave  her,  his  motherless  girl. 

"  Nay,  dearest,  be  calm,"  and  he  gently  put  her  from  him. 
"  Nay,  love,  I  must  leave  you ;  and,  Annie,  will  you  not  let  me 
leave  you  the  wife  of  Lord  Say  ?  He  is  good  and  noble,  and 
the  proudest  earldom  in  England  would  be  his  wedding  present 
to  his  sweet  Scotch  bride  !  He  has  been  to  see  me  again  to-day, 
and  I  have  promised  my  influence  in  his  favor. 

"  You  are  twenty-two  now,  dear  child,  and  I  fain  would  see 


288  THE   SCOTCH   PASTOR'S  BKIDE. 

you  happily  married  before  I  die ;  —  look  up,  Annie,  and  tell  me 
you  will  be  Lady  Say." 

But  her  only  answer  was  a  gush  of  passionate  tears,  as  she  hid 
her  fair  head  on  his  bosom. 

"  Annie,"  —  and  this  time  his  voice  trembled,  though  one 
could  not  tell  whether  with  grief  or  anger,  — "  Annie,  do  you 
love  another  ?  "  Still  there  was  no  answer,  but  the  flush  deep 
ened  on  the  maiden's  cheek,  and  the  long  lashes  drooped  over  her 
tearful  eyes. 

"  You  do,  Annie  !  Who  is  the  wretch  that  has  dared  to  steal 
that  innocent  heart  ?  Speak,  child ;  your  father  commands  it !  " 

And  this  time  the  maiden  spoke.  Rising  from  his  arms, 
she  stood  erect,  her  slight  figure  drawn  to  its  fullest  height. 
"  Father,  he  is  no  wretch,  no  villain  !  —  I  love  George 
Herbert  ! " 

"  George  Herbert,  forsooth  !  "  and  the  proud  man  looked  at 
her  fiercely,  as  if  he  would  have  dashed  her  from  his  sight. 
u  And  so  he  is  the  pitiful  traitor  who  has  stolen  into  my  house, 
in  Christian  garb,  to  ruin  the  happiness  of  my  innocent  child  ? 
Villain  !  —  but  he  shall  answer  for  this  !  " 

"  Father,"  —  and  the  young  girl  stood  before  him,  her  white 
hand  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  his  own  haughty  spirit  looking 
forth  from  her  clear  blue  eyes,  —  "  Father,  George  Herbert  is 
no  traitor ;  —  never  has  he  said  to  me,  by  word  or  act,  that  he 
loved  me ;  and,  if  I  love  him,  't  is  because,  seeing  how  good  and 
noble  he  is,  I  cannot  help  it ;  and,  should  he  never  love  me,  I 
will  go  down  to  my  grave  unmarried ;  for  I  love  him,  and,  as 
God  hears  me,  I  will  marry  no  other  !  " 

"  And,  as  God  hears  me,  you  shall  marry  Lord  Say  ! " 


THE   SCOTCH   PASTOR'S   BKIDE.  289 

"  Never  !  "  and  Annie  Maxwell's  lips  seemed  to  move  invol 
untarily. 

"  Hear  me,  girl,  hear  me  !  If  you  do  not  make  up  your  mind 
to  wed  Lord  Say  within  ten  days,  then  will  I  turn  George  Her 
bert  from  my  door,  and  drag  you  to  the  altar  by  force,  if  it  must 
be  so  ;  for  the  word  of  a  Maxwell  can  never  be  broken  !  "  and, 
turning  away,  he  entered  the  door  of  his  own  room,  and  locked 
himself  in.  0,  how  many  times,  in  after  years,  did  James  Max 
well  regret  those  harsh  words  !  How  many  times  did  his  brow 
throb,  and  there  was  no  gentle  hand  to  lave  it ;  his  heart  ache, 
and  there  was  no  soft  voice  to  whisper  words  of  consolation  ! 

Annie  Maxwell  turned  away,  with  her  heart  swollen  almost  to 
bursting,  and,  ascending  the  long,  oaken  staircase,  entered 
George  Herbert's  study.  The  young  pastor  sat  there,  his  head 
buried  in  his  hands,  and  seemingly  busied  in  intense  thought. 
Annie  stole  gently  to  his  side,  clasped  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and,  pressing  her  lips  to  his  brow,  murmured,  "  George,  you  love 
me  ;  I  cannot  tell  how  I  learned  it,  but  I  know  it ;  and  I  have 
come  to  give  myself  to  you,  to  ask  you  if  you  will  indeed  call 
me  your  little  wife.  George,  dearest,  tell  me ! "  and  she  sank 
into  his  arms. 

For  a  full  moment,  George  Herbert  held  her  there  in  that 
embrace ;  then,  brushing  back  her  sunny  hair,  he  looked  into  her 
eyes,  and  spoke : 

"  Annie  Maxwell,  you  have  well  said  ;  —  I  do  love  you  more 
than  all  things  else,  —  more  than  life  itself.  God  knows  how  I 
love  you,  Annie,  but  I  thought  not  to  have  told  you  this ;  —  the 
vows  of  God  are  upon  me,  and  I  cannot  do  so  great  wickedness 
as  to  ask  your  father's  daughter  to  share  a  lot  so  far  beneath 
25 


290  THE   SCOTCH   PASTOR'S   BKIDE. 

her !  "  and  he  put  her  mournfully  from  him,  and  bent  his  eyes 
upon  the  floor. 

"  O,  George,  you  will  not  cast  me  off !  "  and  Annie  Maxwell 
knelt  on  the  floor  at  his  feet,  and  told  him  of  Lord  Say,  and  her 
father's  fierce  words  and  determined  threat.  George  Herbert 
knew  Lord  James  Maxwell  well ;  he  knew  that  he  would  do  all 
he  said;  and  he  raised  Annie  from  the  floor,  and  whispered,  "  Go 
down  to  the  library,  dearest, — I  will  be  with  you  soon  ;  this  is  a 
hard  matter,  and  I  dare  not  decide  without  much  thought  and 
prayer. 

And  for  two  weary  hours  George  Herbert  knelt  in  fervent 
supplication  in  his  little  study,  and  Annie  Maxwell  sat  the  while 
in  the  library  down  stairs,  weeping  —  not  noisily,  not  wildly, 
but  quietly,  and  very  still  —  the  bitter  tears  of  an  unutterable 
anguish. 

At  last  the  door  opened,  and  George  Herbert  entered,  and, 
folding  her  to  his  heart,  pressed  his  lips  to  hers  in  a  first,  fond 
passion-kiss,  and  whispered,  "My  own,  my  dearest — my  little 
wife  —  look  up,  my  sweet  one,  for  already  I  feel  that  God  has 
given  thee  to  me.  Sad  as  't  will  be  for  thee  to  wed  against  thy 
father's  will,  't  would  be  worse,  ay,  ten  thousand  times  worse, 
for  thee  to  do  such  solemn  mockery  as  give  thy  hand  where 
thy  heart  goes  not  with  it.  'T  is  but  a  humble  lot  I  have  to 
offer  thee,  my  darling.  I  have  a  brother,  who  is  vicar  of  a  small 
and  poor  country  parish  j  he  will  understand  me,  and  believe 
that  I  am  acting  aright.  I  can  be  his  curate.  Say,  Annie, 
darling,  canst  thou  be  a  poor  curate's  wife?  —  thou,  a  noble 
man's  daughter,  —  my  own,  my  beautiful !  "  Very  trustfully 
ewcet  Annie  Maxwell  laid  her  hand  in  his,  and  answered, 


THE   SCOTCH   PASTOR'S   BRIDE.  291 

like  one  of  old  time,  "  Where  thou  goest  I  will  go ;  thy  people 
shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God  ! "  and  once  more 
he  caught  her  to  his  heart,  as  he  whispered,  "  Then,  dearest,  we 
will  go  forth  to-night !  " 


It  was  a  humble  wedding,  that  of  gentle  Annie  Maxwell,  in 
the  small  country  church  of  St.  John. 

There  were  no  diamonds  on  her  brow,  no  orange-blossoms  in 
her  hair,  and  no  delicate  and  costly  veil  floating  over  her  like  a 
cloud.  You  would  have  been  puzzled  to  tell  what  were  the 
"  worldly  goods  "  with  which  George  Herbert  had  vowed  to 
"  endow  "  his  beautiful  bride,  as  he  led  her  into  her  new  home  — 
a  little  white  cottage,  over  which  the  woodbines  and  climbing 
roses  had  wrought  out  a  fairy  poem. 

And  here  sweet  Annie  Maxwell  reigned,  undisputed  mistress 
both  of  her  bird's-nest  home  and  the  heart  of  her  husband.  For 
a  time  Lord  Maxwell  had  searched  for  her,  but,  on  hearing  of 
her  marriage,  he  immured  himself  in  his  castle,  a  prey,  some 
said,  to  regret ;  others,  to  a  proud,  fierce  shame,  that  he  had 
been  compelled  to  forfeit  his  plighted  word  to  the  bold  Lord  Say. 
Lord  Say  brought  home  another  bride,  on  short  wooing,  and  the 
world  jogged  on  as  of  old. 

There  were  just  as  many  tears  in  it  as  before,  — just  as  many 
sighs, — but  there  was  more  happiness;  for,  in  a  sweet  nook,  far 
away  from  the  din  of  the  great  world-life,  George  Herbert  and 
his  Annie  rejoiced  in  their  pure  young  love. 

They  were  poor,  and  it  made  his  heart  ache  sometimes  that 
his  sweet  bride  must  lead  a  life  so  different  from  that  to  which 


292  TUB  SCOTCH  PASTOR'S  BRIDE. 

she  had  been  accustomed ;  and  yet  his  eyes  kindled  with  joy,  to 
see  her  bright  face,  as  she  went  dancing  about  his  home  like  a 
fairy,  or  to  hear  her  merry  voice,  instructing  the  good-humored 
Scotch  lassie,  who  was  the  only  assistant  in  their  simple  cuisine. 

And  their  evenings,  —  0  !  what  happy  hours  they  had  then ! 
In  the  morning  there  was  housekeeping  to  attend  to,  and  sermons 
to  write  ;  in  the  afternoon,  callers  to  be  entertained,  and  parish 
ioners  to  be  visited  ;  but  the  evenings  —  ah  !  then  they  had  only 
to  be  happy.  How  proudly  George  would  smile,  when  he  had 
drawn  the  round  study-table  before  the  brightly-blazing  fire,  and 
wheeled  the  study-chair  beside  it,  and  his  sweet  wife  would  come 
and  lay  her  head  on  his  bosom,  sometimes  smiling,  sometimes,  all 
too  intensely  happy  even  for  silent  smiles,  she  would  look  into 
his  eyes,  with  the  bright  joy-tears  trembling  on  her  long  lashes ! 
And  there  they  would  sit,  with  the  fire-shine  brightening  over 
them,  and  the  kitten  lying  at  their  feet  and  purring. 

Sometimes  he  would  lay  her  fair  head  back  on  his  shoulder, 
and  sing  to  her,  till  her  heart  went  beating  time  to  the  music  of 
his  voice ;  and  then  she  would  talk  to  him,  in  her  own  sweet 
tones,  of  all  things  good  and  beautiful,  —  of  poetry,  and  the 
wondrous  songs  that  fairy  whispers  seemed  trilling  through  the 
cloisters  of  her  own  pure  spirit. 

And,  at  last,  they  would  kneel  together,  with  his  fond  arm 
clasping  her,  and  bless  God  for  all  this  happiness ;  and  though 
their  earthly  father  was  far  away  in  the  gloom  of  his  stately 
castle,  love-rays  floated  over  them  from  the  throne  of  their 
Father  in  heaven,  —  angels  watched  over  them,  and  they  slept 
like  the  blest ! 

Time  passed  on,  and  another  visitor  came  to  gladden  their 


THE  SCOTCH  PASTOR'S  BRIDE.  293 

little  circle,  —  a  very  tiny  one,  indeed,  but,  0,  so  dear !  and 
now  their  evenings  were  merrier.  How  proudly  the  young  father 
held  his  little  Lilias ;  and  Annie  —  0  !  love  had  smiled  all  the 
jealousy  out  of  her  heart,  and  she  heeded  not  that  another  occu 
pied  her  old,  time-won  place  in  her  husband's  arms. 

And  when,  at  nine  o'clock,  the  nurse  came  to  take  the  sweet 
Lily  away,  what  kisses  and  blessings  and  good-nights  there 
were !  and  then,  as  in  the  old  time,  would  the  girl-wife  nestle 
fondly  in  her  husband's  bosom. 

Three  years  passed  by,  and  Lilias  had  grown  strangely  beau 
tiful.  She  inherited  her  father's  classically  regular  features,  and 
her  mother's  deep,  soft  eyes,  and  golden  hair.  Hers  seemed  "  a 
face  to  look  upon,  and  pray  that  a  pure  spirit  keep  her."  She 
loved  the  beautiful,  too,  with  all  her  mother's  passionate  devo 
tion  ;  and  would  sit  for  hours  in  her  little  high  chair,  drawn  to  the 
window,  and  look  forth,  with  her  spiritual  eyes,  over  the  waving 
woods  and  distant  mountains,  rising,  dim  and  soft,  up  into  the 
clear  blue  sky,  until  Annie  would  almost  tremble  lest  she  should 
see  angel-faces  in  the  clouds,  and  hidden  voices  should  call  her 
away  from  the  earth-land. 

But,  no,  —  she  lived,  grew,  and  brightened  before  them,  until 
now  she  was  nine  years  old  ;  and,  by  a  succession  of  providential 
events,  George  Herbert  had  been  called  to  the  pastoral  charge 
of  the  church  at  which  Lord  Maxwell  was  an  occasional  attend 
ant.  The  young  clergyman  had  looked  forward  with  dismay  to 
the  prospect  of  meeting  the  grim  old  lord ;  but  they  had  been 
settled  in  their  new  abode  for  three  weeks  before  they  saw  him. 

One  evening  Lily  and  her  nurse  went  forth  for  a  long  walk 

over  the  hills. 

25* 


294  THE   SCOTCH    PASTOR'S   BRIDE. 

The  girl  had  left  the  beautiful  child  for  a  few  moments,  in 
order  to  exchange  a  few  words  with  an  old  friend  ;  and  the  sweet 
Lily  had  wandered  onward,  till  she  thought  herself  lost,  and, 
sitting  down  by  the  road-side,  wept  bitterly. 

Presently  a  carriage  stopped  before  her,  and  an  old  gentleman 
alighted,  who,  apparently,  had  been  attracted  by  her  beauty. 

"  Why  do  you  cry,  dear  child  ?  "  he  asked,  at  the  same  time 
caressingly  brushing  back  her  curls. 

"  Because,  please,  sir,  I  am  lost !  "  and  the  little  maiden  looked 
up  into  his  face  with  her  spiritual  eyes. 

"  Well,  dear  child,  will  you  go  with  me  ?  I  have  nobody  to 
love  me,  and  I  will  give  you  a  beautiful  castle,  and  pearls,  and 
diamonds,  and  pictures."  The  sweet  child  had  never  heard  of 
pearls  or  diamonds ;  but  she  had  seen  a  castle,  and  she  thought 
pictures  must  be  pleasant  things,  because  Mamma  had  said  that 
their  new  home,  at  Sutherland  rectory,  looked  like  a  picture ;  and 
the  old  man's  words  seemed  very  beautiful. 

But  she  thought  a  moment,  and  answered,  "  No,  thank  you, 
sir,  I  cannot  go  with  you ;  Papa  would  cry  so,  and  then  I  must 
go  home,  and  say  my  prayers  at  Mamma's  knee."  And,  as  she 
spoke,  there  was  a  music  in  her  voice  which  thrilled  the  old 
man's  heart  strangely,  and  made  him  wonder  he  had  not  noticed 
it  before.  Almost  mechanically  he  asked,  "  And  what  do  you 
pray  for,  little  one  ?  "  more  for  the  sake  of  hearing  her  voice 
again,  than  from  curiosity  as  to  what  would  be  her  answer. 

"  For  Ma,  sir,  and  Pa,  and  Grandpa  !  "  and  she  smiled  into 
his  face  with  her  large,  trustful  eyes. 

"  And  what  do  they  call  you,  child-angel  ?  "  and  he  lifted  her 
fondly  to  his  bosom. 


THE   SCOTCH    PASTOR'S   BRIDE.  295 

"  Lilias  Herbert  is  my  name,  sir,  but  Papa  calls  me  his  Lily." 

"  My  child,  my  child  !  "  and  the  old  man  covered  her  sweet 
face  with  tears  and  kisses,  as  he  told  her  he  was  that  unseen 
grandpa  for  whom  she  had  prayed  these  many  years. 

The  fair  Lily  looked  at  him,  with  all  the  innocent  trust  of 
childhood,  and  whispered,  "  Please,  sir,  won't  you  go  to  see 
Mamma  ?  " 

"  Yes,  child-angel,  I  will  go  to  see  your  mamma,  and  you 
shall  all  come  and  live  at  Maxwell  Grange  " 

And  so  the  sweet  child  was  carried  home  in  that  handsome 
carriage,  and  the  old  man  raised  his  Annie,  when  she  would  have 
knelt  at  his  feet,  and  whispered,  "  It  is  I  that  should  ask  you  to 
forgive,  but  I  will  not ;  I  '11  only  ask  you,  darling,  if  you  '11 
come  again,  and  gladden  the  old  man's  home  ?  " 

And  there  were  tears,  and  smiles,  and  joyful  kisses,  and  once 
more  Annie  Herbert's  gay  laugh  echoed  through  Maxwell  Grange ; 
and  little  Lily  went  roaming  over  its  broad  halls,  in  her  snow- 
white  garments,  like  a  beautiful  spirit. 

O,  what  a  blessing  seemed  to  brighten  all  their  lives !  and  the 
proud  old  man  learnt  lessons  of  wisdom  and  purity  from  the  little 
one  whose  white  arms  were  wreathed  about  his  neck. 

One  evening,  George  and  Annie  left  them  together,  —  the  old 
man  and  the  beautiful  child-angel,  —  and  sought  the  little  study 
which  had  witnessed  their  first,  strangely-spoken  vows  of  love. 

There  was  a  bright  fire  burning,  as  in  the  old  time,  and  the 
old  books  were  neatly  ranged,  their  gilded  lettering  glowing  in  the 
fire-light ;  and  still,  as  then,  George  Herbert  sat  in  the  old  study- 
chair  ;  but  this  time  he  did  not  put  his  Annie  from  him  :  there 
she  lay,  her  head  resting  on  his  bosom,  peacefully  as  an  infant  in 


296  THE   SCOTCH   PASTOR'S   BRIDE. 

its  mother's  arms.  They  had  been  speaking  of  the  old  time,  and 
George  had  been  recalling  all  the  fond  pride  with  which  he  had 
watched  his  bustling  little  wife  in  those  early  days,  till  a  tear 
glistened  in  Annie's  eyes,  as  she  answered,  "  Ah !  dearest,  I  am 
happy  with  you,  and  Lily,  and  father,  in  my  dear  old  home  ;  but 
the  jewels  he  has  given  me  are  not  half  so  sweet  as  the  roses  you 
used  to  twine  in  my  hair ;  and,  amid  all  my  after  life,  memory 
will  never  sing  me  a  pleasanter  tune  than  those  dear  eld  chimes 
of  our  love  in  a  manse." 


THE   NEW-YEAR'S   NIGHT  OF  THE   UNHAPPY. 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   GERMAN   OF   JEAN   PAUL   RICHTER. 

AN  old  man  stood  in  the  New  Year's  midnight,  at  his  window, 
and  looked  with  the  eye  of  a  long  despair  up  to  the  immovable, 
always  blooming  sky,  and  down  on  the  still,  pure  white  earth, 
on  which  now  there  was  no  one  so  joyless  and  sleepless  as  he. 
Then  his  grave  drew  near  to  him  ;  it  was  only  concealed  by  the 
snow  of  age,  not  by  the  verdure  of  youth  ;  and  he  had  brought  out 
of  the  whole  rich  life  nothing  but  the  errors,  sins  and  sickness,  of 
an  enfeebled  body,  a  desolated  soul,  a  breast  full  of  poisons,  and 
an  old  age  full  of  remorse. 

His  beautiful  youthful  days  came  back  to  him  to-day  as  spectres, 
and  led  him  far  away  back  again  to  the  fair  morning,  when  his 
father  first  set  him  out  upon  the  highway  of  life,  which,  to  the 
right,  leads  upon  the  sun-path  of  virtue,  into  a  wide  and  quiet  land, 
full  of  light  and  harvests,  and  full  of  angels ;  and  which  to  the 
left  leads  down  into  the  mole-path  of  vice,  into  a  black  cavern, 
full  of  dripping  poisons,  full  of  serpents  ready  to  dart  upon  their 
prey,  and  full  of  dismal,  close  exhalations.  0  !  the  serpents 
hung  around  his  breast,  and  the  poison-drops  to  his  tongue,  and  he 
knew  not  where  he  was. 

Beside  himself,  and  with  unspeakable  grief,  he  cried  out  to 
Heaven  :  "  0,  give  me  youth  again !  0,  Father,  set  me  out  once 
more  upon  the  highway,  that  I  may  choose  the  other  path!  " 
But  his  father  and  his  youth  were  past  long  ago !  He  saw  ignes 


298  THE  NEW-YEAR'S  NIGHT  OP  THE  UNIIAWY. 

fatui  dance  over  the  marshes,  and  go  out  upon  the  grave-yard, 
and  he  said,  "  They  are  my  foolish  days  !  " 

He  saw  a  star  shoot  from  heaven,  shimmer  in  its  fall,  and 
vanish  on  the  earth.  "  That  is  me !  "  said  his  bleeding  heart, 
and  the  serpent^fang  of  remorse  dug  deeper  into  the  wounds. 
His  glowing  imagination  revealed  to  him  tottering  sleep-walkers 
on  the  roof;  the  wind-mill  raised  its  arms,  threatening  to  crush 
him ;  and  a  mask,  which  had  beeu  left  in  the  empty  charnel- 
house,  by  degrees  assumed  his  own  features. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  struggle,  the  music  of  the  new 
year  flowed  out  of  a  tower  near  at  hand,  like  the  distant  sound 
of  a  church-anthem.  His  mind  became  calmer.  He  looked  up 
to  the  horizon,  and  out  over  the  white  earth ;  and  he  thought  on 
the  friends  of  his  youth,  who,  now  happier  and  better  than  he, 
were  teachers  on  the  earth,  fathers  of  happy  children,  and  blessed 
of  men,  and  he  said,  "  0,  I  might  also  have  slumbered,  with 
closed  eyes,  on  this  first  night  of  the  year,  if  I  had  willed  it ! 
0,  I  might  also  have  been  happy,  you  dear  parents,  had  I  ful 
filled  your  New-Year's  wishes  and  instructions !  " 

Amidst  these  feverish  reminiscences  of  his  youth,  it  appeared 
to  him  as  if  the  mask,  with  his  features,  stood  up  in  the  charnel- 
house  ;  and,  at  last,  by  means  of  that  superstition  which,  on  New- 
Year's  eve,  sees  ghosts  and  future  events,  it  was  changed  into  a 
living  youth. 

He  could  look  at  it  no  more !  He  veiled  his  eyes ;  a  thousand 
hot  tears  streamed  dissolving  into  the  snow,  and  still  he  sighed, 
but  very  low,  beside  himself,  and  grief-stricken,  "  Come  again, 
only  once,  0  youth ;  come  again  ! " 

And  it  came  again  ;  for  he  had  only  dreamed  so  bitterly,  in 


THE  NEW-YEAR'S  NIGHT  OP  THE  UNHAPPY.  299 

the  New-Year's  midnight.  He  was  still  a  young  man ;  only  his 
wanderings  were  no  dream.  But  he  thanked  God  that  he,  still 
young,  could  turn  back  from  the  dark  track  of  vice,  and  set  out 
again  upon  the  sunny  path  of  virtue,  which  leads  into  the  fair 
land  of  harvests. 

Turn  with  him,  young  reader,  if  thou  standest  on  his  path  of 
error !  This  fearful  dream  will  some  time  become  thy  reality ;  but, 
if  once  thou  shalt  cry,  full  of  anguish,  "  Come  back  to  me,  beauti 
ful  days  of  youth ! "  ah,  they  will  come  back  never  again ! 


FANCIES  FOR  LOULIE 


WINSOME,  fairy,  darling  child  ! 
Pure  of  heart  and  undefiled, 
With  the  rings  of  sunny  hair 
Lying  on  thy  forehead  fair, 
Like  the  light  we  see  in  dreams, 
Resting  on  enchanted  streams. 

Visions  of  thy  future  years, 
Shadows  from  their  loves  and  fears, 
Rest  upon  my  trembling  soul, 
As  thou  near'st  the  shining  goal, 
Where  the  woman  and  the  child 
Blend  in  girlhood  sweet  and  mild. 

Many  a  streamlet  fair  and  blue, 
Many  a  flower  of  radiant  hue, 
Many  a  magic  mountain  green, 
Many  a  broad  field,  lies  between 
Now  and  then,  sweet  child,  to  thee, 
Loulie  and  her  destiny. 

Many  a  love-dream  sweet  and  fair, 
Many  a  rosary  of  prayer, 
Many  a  broken  link  and  chain, 
Rent  apart  with  throbs  of  pain 
(On  the  road  which  thou  shalt  pass) 
Gleam  like  stoles  at  midnight  mass  ! 


FANCIES  FOR  LOULIE. 

Darling,  fairy,  sweet  Loulie  ! 
Let  the  future's  mystery 
Bring  no  heritage  of  care 
To  that  brow,  so  young  and  fair  ; 
For  the  angels  sentry  keep 
O'er  thy  soul's  enchanted  sleep. 
26 


301 


AGNES  LEE. 

AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


CHAPTER     I. 

I  LIKE  this  strange  morning  on  which  I  am  writing  ;  this  sun- 
.ess,  rainless  day ;  the  all  gray  sky,  the  phantom  wind,  stealing 
over  the  hills  with  its  ghostly  feet,  and  now  and  then  stopping  to 
blow  some  fearful,  shrieking  blast.  I  like  it ;  for  it  comes  to  me 
like  a  memorial.  I  sit  still,  holding  my  breath,  with  my  hand 
clasped  tightly  over  my  eyes,  and  think  of  high,  fierce  tides, 
tramping  in  upon  low  lee-shores,  of  alarm-guns  sounding  among 
the  breakers  at  midnight,  and  the  pale  moon  over  head,  stretch 
ing  out  her  arms,  and  fighting  fiercely  with  black,  pursuing 
clouds. 

Some  one  has  said  there  are  moments  which  command  our 
lives,  —  moments,  looking  back  upon  which,  we  can  see  where  a 
single  half-hour  might  have  changed  our  destinies.  Every  one's 
life  has  such  points,  that  rise,  pyramid-like,  above  the  dead 
level  of  the  years ;  and  I  am  going  back  to  one,  this  morning. 

You  would  think  me  very  old,  could  you  see  me  now.  The 
smooth  gray  hair  is  folded  back  under  my  quaker  cap,  like  bands 
of  silver ;  and  over  my  face  are  drawn  deep,  furrowed  lines,  the 
footprints  left  by  lonesome  years  in  their  tireless  journey  ings.  I 


AGNES   LEE.  303 

am  old,  when  I  count  my  life  by  incidents ;  and  yet  not  so  very 
old,  when  I  tell  it  over  in  years. 

I  do  not  know  how  far  back  I  can  remember.  Sometimes  I 
seem  to  have  dim  visions  of  a  fair  southern  home.  Bright 
flowers  seem  blooming  round  me ;  and  southern  breezes  make 
sweet  music,  touching  with  their  invisible  fingers  .ZEolian  harp- 
strings.  Standing  there,  the  soft  eyes  of  beautiful  pictures  smile 
on  me,  or  the  still  form  of  some  old  marble  hunter  rises  up  in 
solemn  state  at  my  side.  It  is  a  pleasant  country,  though  I  see 
it  very  dimly  through  mists  of  years;  and  I  am  not  quite  sure, 
after  all,  whether  it  be  anything  more  than  a  floating  island  of 
fancy.  It  seems  little  else,  on  mornings  such  as  this.  1  can  go 
back  to  it,  and  bind  my  brow  with  its  flowers,  in  the  calm,  pleas 
ant  days  of  midsummer,  when  I  sit  in  my  low  chair  before  my 
cottage  door,  and  round  me  the  wild  birds  sing,  the  summer 
flowers  blossom,  and  the  sweet  south  wind  lifts  lovingly  my  silver 
hair. 

But  it  is  different  now.  This  sobbing,  lonely  November  morn 
ing,  I  see  no  fair  and  sunny  scenes,  no  southern  palaces,  or  soft- 
eyed  pictures,  but  back  to  my  heart  comes  the  first  deep,  vivid 
memory  of  my  life,  stern,  crushing,  terrible ! 

It  was  a  strange  scene;  you  may  have  read  of  such,  but  God 
grant  they  may  never  have  dawned  on  your  own  life,  never  have 
made  your  hair  stiffen,  or  chilled  the  blood  in  your  veins.  I  was 
very  small,  I  know,  for  I  had  been  playing  on  the  deck  of  a  stately 
ship,  handed  around,  baby-like,  from  one  to  another.  At  last  I 
had  been  put  to  bed  in  my  little  hammock,  and  a  being  fair  as 
a  seraph  had  bent  over  me,  saying  prayers,  and  Ave  Marias. 

I  had  been  dreaming,  I  believe,  pleasant,  sunny  dreams,  when 


304  AGNES   LEE. 

suddenly  a  quick  grasp  woke  me.  It  was  the  same  fair  woman, 
but  now  her  face  was  blanched  deadly  pale.  The  white  women, 
whose  work  it  is  to  bury  the  dead  drowned  at  sea,  could  not  have 
looked  more  ghastly.  She  said  nothing,  but,  gathering  me  up  in 
her  arms,  she  rushed  on  deck. 

I  see  it  yet  distinctly  —  that  fearful  scene  !  The  good  ship 
was  plunging  like  a  frightened  steed,  —  madly  plunging,  rushing 
on  toward  a  low  lee-shore  upon  our  left. 

There,  over  rocks  whose  white  tops  shone  up  clear  and  ghast 
ly  in  the  fitful  moonlight,  the  great  waves  boiled  and  surged, 
and  then  retreated,  coming  up  again  to  hug  those  frightful,  deso 
late  rocks  more  madly  than  before. 

The  winds  howled  and  shrieked,  like  so  many  demons  keeping 
holiday ;  and  onward  toward  this  terrible  shore  our  ship  was 
plunging.  The  moon  over  head  shone  out  sometimes  from  thick, 
black  clouds,  like  a  phantom  face,  looking  down  mockingly  upon 
this  war  of  elements.  Anon,  the  vivid  lightnings  flashed,  and 
the  thunder  sounded  its  hoarse,  muffled  dirge-notes ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  all,  our  vessel,  like  a  prancing  steed,  was  careering 
joyously,  bounding  onward  toward  death. 

There  was  no  boat  which  could  stand,  for  a  moment,  the  fury 
of  such  a  gale.  Some  of  the  men  launched  one,  it  is  true  ;  but 
it  had  scarcely  cleared  the  ship  when  it  went  to  pieces  before 
our  eyes,  and  the  poor  fellows  perished. 

No,  there  was  no  hope,  none ;  the  boldest  swimmers  were 
powerless  in  such  a  sea,  and  the  grasp  of  those  fiercely-battling 
waves  was  no  mother's  cherishing  love-clasp.  I  know  that  fair 
woman  strained  me  closely  to  her  breast,  as  she  clung  with  her 
other  arm  to  a  rope  overhanging  the  sides  of  the  vessel.  I  know, 


AGNES   LEE.  305 

with  my  ear  close  to  her  lips,  I  could  catch,  amid  the  storm, 
solemn  words  of  prayer;  then  there  was  a  mighty  shock, — 
a  sound,  as  when  many  a  cannon  peals  forth  its  echo-startling 
clang  of  defiance  ;  and  after  that  I  know  no  more.  N-s^ 

I  seem  to  have  a  faint,  and  yet  most  terrible  vision,  of  the 
moon  shining  down,  brighter  than  ever,  on  white,  ghastly  faces 
upturned  to  her  gaze,  their  long  locks  dripping  with  the  briny 
waves ;  of  the  sea  subsiding  to  a  dead  calm,  as  if  contented 
with  its  prey ;  but,  beyond  that  fierce,  terrible  crash,  I  know 
nothing. 

My  next  memory  is  very  different.  It  is  of  a  fisherman's 
hut  on  the  Cornwall  shore  ;  a  little,  smoky,  disagreeable  place, 
where  one  morning  I  lifted  my  head  from  a  couch  of  sea-weed, 
and  looked  around  me.  I  saw  low,  smoke-blackened  walls,  hung 
with  fishers'  nets,  seal-skins  and  dried  herring.  A  man  sat  by 
the  drift-wood  fire ;  he  had  a  strange  face,  in  which  my  riper 
judgment  can  hardly  tell  whether  the  good  or  evil  predominated. 
It  wore  an  expression  of  hardy,  patient  endurance.  About  the 
mouth  were  the  strong  lines  of  physical  power,  and  the  thick, 
shaggy  hair  shaded  a  brow  whose  solidity  and  breadth  betokened 
anything  but  a  simpleton. 

I  fancy  I  must  have  loved  power  and  strength  even  then,  for 
I  know  my  childish  spirit  seemed  to  recognize  far  more  affinity 
with  him  than  with  his  wife,  who  was  by  far  the  kindest-looking 
person  of  the  two. 

But,  whatever  I  thought  of  them,  I  am  sure  I  must  have  hud 
memories  of  far  different  scenes ;  for  I  well  remember  that  [ 
resented,  as  an  indignity,  my  having  been  brought  to  that  hum 
ble  dwelling. 


306  AGNES   LEE. 

I  was  very  weak,  for  I  had  no  sooner  completed  my  survey 
of  the  desolate-looking  apartment  than  I  was  forced  to  lay  my 
head  back  upon  my  sea-weed  pillow ;  and  it  must  have  been 
half  an  hour  before  I  was  able  to  speak.  By  this  time,  the 
woman  had  completed  the  preparation  of  breakfast,  and  ap 
proached  me  with  a  porringer  of  warm  goat's  milk,  and  coarse 
bread.  But  I  put  it  haughtily  from  me,  and,  rising  up  in  my 
bed,  I  exclaimed, 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  your  breakfast ;  and  I  wish  you  'd  just 
tell  me  what  I  've  been  brought  to  this  horrid  place  for  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  't  was  as  kind  a  thing,"  growled  the  man  at  the 
fire,  "  to  bring  you  home  here,  as  to  ha'  left  you  out  o'  doors  to 
die  along  with  that  dead  woman  I  found  you  fastened  to,  two 
weeks  agone  this  mornin'." 

"  Dead  !  "  said  I ;  "  mamma  is  n't  dead,  is  she  ?  " 

"  Wai,  I  reckon  you  won't  find  any  on  'em  anythin'  else  but 
dead,  that  was  out  on  the  lee-shore  that  night.  They  're  all 
gone,  barrin'  you ;  and  we  might  as  well  ha'  left  you  to  die,  if 
you  can't  carry  a  more  civil  tongue  in  your  head." 

"  Well,  go  away,  please,"  said  I,  more  gently  to  the  woman, 
who  still  stood  by  the  bed-side ;  "  I  can't  eat  any  breakfast,  this 
morning." 

"  Poor  little  critter  !  "  said  the  woman,  compassionately  ;  — 
"  belike  she  's  lonesome,  —  you  ought  not  to  told  her,  John  ;  " 
and  she  turned  away. 

I  lay  there  in  a  kind  of  stupor.  I  was  not  old  enough  to 
realize  how  strange  was  the  providence  which  had  preserved 
only  me,  a  little,  helpless  child,  out  of  all  that  crew  of  bold, 
strong  men  ;  not  old  enough  for  praise  and  thankfulness  ;  and  I 


AGNES   LEK  307 

was  only  sensible,  as  I  lay  there,  still  and  quiet,  with  closed  eyes, 
of  a  deep,  desperate  feeling  of  hate  and  anger  against  I  knew 
not  what — the  sea,  the  storm,  the  ship,  almost  against  the  very 
people  who  had  died,  and  left  me  thus  alone  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER     I    . 

Mine  was  surely  a  strange  childhood.  I  grew  up  there  in 
the  fisherman's  lonely  hut,  on  the  Cornwall  shore.  The  fisher 
man  and  his  wife  had  no  children,  and  they  loved  me,  and  were 
kind  to  me  in  their  way.  The  woman  soon  found  that  my  errant, 
wandering  spirit  could  ill  brook  confinement ;  and  she  ceased  her 
attempts  to  teach  me  knitting  and  net-making,  and  allowed  me 
to  wander  whither  I  listed,  only  exacting  that  I  should  bring 
home  at  night  a  certain  quantity  of  sea-moss,  which  her  hus 
band  used  to  carry  for  sale  to  the  neighboring  market-town,  a 
distance  of  some  twenty  miles. 

Perhaps,  to  one  of  my  temperament,  this  hardy  life  was  not 
without  its  advantages ;  at  least,  it  was  singularly  free  from 
temptation.  No  Indian  maiden  ever  led  a  life  freer,  or  more 
tameless.  I  used  to  scale  cliffs  from  which  the  boldest  hunter 
would  have  shrunk  back  appalled,  and,  standing  on  their  jagged 
summits,  laugh  a  defiance  to  the  eagles,  and  toss  back  my  long, 
black  hair,  with  its  sea-weed  coronet,  a  princess  in  my  own 
right. 

Neither  the  fisherman  nor  his  wife  knew  how  to  read,  and  I 
grew  up  in  a  like  ignorance  ;  and  yet,  I  was  by  no  means  devoid 
of  one  kind  of  education.  I  could  tell  where  the  eagles  hatched 
and  the  sea-birds  hung  their  nests  ;  where  the  tallest  trees  lifted 


308  AGNES    LEE. 

their  great  arms,  praying  to  the  pitiless  sky,  and  where  the 
stonr.-winds  lashed  the  waves  to  wildest  fury. 

My  keen  eye  could  discern  in  the  distance  each  little  cloud 
no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand;  and  afar  off  I  recognized  the 
coming  spirit  of  a  blast  that  should  be  strong  to  strew  the  sea 
with  wrecks. 

One  night  —  I  must  have  been  about  thirteen  years  old  —  I 
had  climbed  to  the  very  top  of  a  high  cliff,  known  as  the  Devil's 
Tea-kettle.  It  was  a  singular  place ;  steep,  pointed,  jagged 
rocks  hemmed  in  a  basin,  on  whose  sandy  bed  white,  shining 
pebbles  lay  bleaching  in  the  sunlight.  I  had  heard  terrible 
tales  of  this  strange  chasm."^  The  peasantry  said  it  was  the 
brewing-place  of  the  waters  of  the  stream  of  death,  for  never 
were  the  waves  known  to  rise  high  enough  to  fill  the  basin,  but 
that  some  goodly  ship  went  down  in  sight  of  land,  with  all  her 
freight  of  precious  souls.  V 

I  had  never  seen  the  waves  boil  in  the  Devil's  Tea-kettle,  but 
I  had  been  told  that  never  had  they  surged  so  madly  as  on  that 
fearful  night  when  I  was  dashed  upon  the  lonely  shore,  and 
the  storm-spirits  clasped  hands  with  the  winds,  and  shouted 
forth  my  mother's  requiem. 

I  think  I  must  have  been  born  in  a  storm,  for  they  wore  to 
me  the  familiar  faces  of  dear  old  friends.  I  loved  them ;  and 
on  this  night  of  which  I  speak,  when  I  had  climbed  to  the  top 
most  ledge  of  these  spectral  cliffs,  I  planted  there  my  firm  step, 
and,  looking  forth  to  sea,  laughed  merrily.  And  yet  a  landsman 
would  have  said  it  bade  fair  to  be  a  beautiful  night.  The  sea 
was  very  calm  —  too  calm — for  it  was  the  lull  before  the  tem 
pest.  The  sun  was  going  down  into  his  palace  of  clouds,  fling- 


AGNES    LEE.  309 

ing  back  over  the  waters  the  lengthening  robe  of  his  glory  ;  and 
over  opposite,  the  moon,  like  a  fair  young  bride,  was  climbing  up 
the  east,  with  a  star  or  two  for  bride's-maids,  going  forth  to  be 
wedded  to  the  night. 

0,  it  was  a  beautiful  scene  !  I  have  looked  on  such  in  later 
years,  till  my  heart  ached  with  their  quiet  beauty.  But  it  ached 
not  then.  I  clapped  my  hands  as  I  looked  forth  over  the  waters, 
for  there,  in  the  far  distance,  was  a  little  cloud.  It  was  a  pretty 
thing  enough,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  scene  ;  white,  and 
soft,  and  fleecy,  as  an  angel's  wing.  But  I  recognized  it ;  1 
knew  it  was  no  seraph  coming  nearer;  but  that,  as  in  their 
funeral  processions  at  the  East,  they  send  far  on,  in  advance, 
white-robed  maidens,  scattering  flowers,  even  so  now  had  the 
advancing  spirit  of  the  storm,  twin-leagued  with  darkness  and 
despair,  sent  forth  before  his  face  this  peaceful  herald.  And  I 
knew  from  its  position,  and  the  rate  at  which  it  scudded  before 
the  wind,  that  there  was  to  be  a  fearful  storm, — no  gentle  breeze 
to  rock  a  child's  cradle,  but  a  Euroclydon,  to  lash  the  deep  sea 
into  fury. 

0,  how  high  my  heart  swelled  as  I  looked  on  it,  and  shouted, 
in  my  glee,  that  the  Devil's  Tea-kettle  would  boil  well  to-night ! 
But  I  think  it  was  not  from  any  native  malignity.  I  desired 
not  death,  but  excitement.  I  wanted  a  wreck,  it  is  true ;  but 
then  I  would  have  braved  life  and  limb  to  save  the  lives  of  its 
victims.  But  the  sunset  glory  faded  out  from  the  heavens,  the 
moon  climbed  higher,  the  white  cloud  widened,  and  I  sprang 
down  the  cliff,  and,  gathering  up  my  basket  of  sea-moss,  walked 
slowly  home. 

I  did  not  sleep  that  night.     My  little  room  opened  out  of  the 


810  AGNES   USE. 

one  where  I  had  first  found  myself,  and  which  was  at  once  sleep, 
ing-room,  kitchen  and  parlor,  for  the  fisherman  and  his  wife. 
About  midnight,  I  heard  a  sound.  It  was  a  signal-gun,  —  once 
and  again  it  boomed  over  the  waters.  Hurriedly  dressing  my 
self,  I  roused  the  fisherman  from  his  slumbers,  and,  putting  ou 
a  cloak  and  hood,  stole  unobserved  from  the  dwelling.  My  feet 
did  not  pause  till  I  had  reached  the  topmost  ledge  of  the  Devil's 
Tea-kettle.  Merciful  Heavens  !  how  the  waves  seethed  and 
boiled !  What  a  sight !  It  frightened  even  me,  who  had  never 
known  fear  before ;  and,  springing  down  the  rocks,  I  fled  as  if 
a  whole  army  of  fiends  were  pursuing  me. 

I  hurried  along  the  shore  for  a  few  rods,  when  the  light  of  a 
lantern  flashed  full  in  my  face,  and  I  paused.  It  was  John. 

"  You  here,  child  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  tone  which  had  more  of 
surprise  than  anger.  I  think  he  was  glad  to  have  some  human 
eyes  to  gaze  on  the  terrible  scene,  beside  his  own.  The  moon, 
which  had  shone  out  fitfully  as  I  stood  beside  the  Devil's  Tea 
kettle,  was  now  buried  beneath  billows  of  heavy,  surging  clouds. 
Only  now  and  then  some  vivid  flash  of  lightning  would  show  us, 
in  the  distance,  a  great,  black-looking  ship,  like  some  fearful 
phantom  bearing  down  upon  the  shore. 

At  intervals,  the  signal-guns  would  boom  over  the  waves 
like  the  sullen  roar  of  some  wild  animal ;  or  a  human  voice 
would  shriek  out  wildly,  hopelessly,  for  the  help  which  came 
not.  0,  it  was  a  terrible  sight  to  stand  there  and  watch  that 
mighty  ship,  hurrying  helplessly  to  its  death.  I  looked  till  my 
soul  grew  sick  —  I  could  look  no  longer.  I  sank  down  upon  the 
cliff"  where  I  was  standing,  and  clasped  my  hands  across  my 
eyes.  I  did  not  see  the  struggles  of  the  proud  ship,  but  I  heard 


AGNES   LEE.  311 

the  sullen,  deafening  crash,  when  she,  too,  struck  upon  hidden 
rocks,  and  went  down  helplessly  in  sight  of  land.  I  heard  the 
crash,  and,  putting  my  fingers  in  my  ears,  ran  inland,  till  my 
breath  was*spent. 

And  then  the  early  summer  morning  dawned.  We  had  stood 
there  three  hours,  though  it  seemed  not  as  many  minutes.  So 
long  had  the  good  ship  struggled  with  the  waves,  so  long  her  brave 
crew  died  a  living  death  of  suspense  and  anguish.  As  soon  as 
the  earliest  dawn-rays  commenced  to  light  my  path,  I  turned  my 
footsteps  homeward ;  and,  at  the  door  of  the  hut,  I  met  John, 
bearing  a  senseless  figure  in  his  arms. 

"  This  is  all  that's  left  of  'em,  Agnes  ! "  said  he,  with  a  sadness 
unusual  to  his  tone;  and,  entering  the  cabin,  he  laid  his 
half-drowned  burden  upon  the  sea-weed  couch.  His  wife  had 
already  opened  the  windows,  and  lighted  the  fire ;  and  she 
hastened  to  apply  vigorously  all  her  stock  of  simple  restoratives. 
Her  care  was  presently  rewarded,  by  seeing  the  stranger's  eyes 
unclose,  and  catching  the  faint  sound  of  his  irregular  breathing. 

It  was  several  days,  however,  before  he  could  rise  from  the 
couch  where  he  had  been  placed.  On  the  morning  of  the  fourth 
day,  he  slowly  approached  the  window,  and  sat  down.  "My 
friend,"  said  he  to  the  fisherman,  "  I  owe  you  already  more  than 
gold  can  ever  pay  you !  Will  you  do  more  for  me  still  ?  Can 
you  bring  me,  from  the  next  post-town,  a  sheet  of  paper  and  some 
ink ;  and  will  you  let  me  be  your  guest,  till  I  receive  an  answer 
to  the  letter  which  I  must  write  ?  When  it  comes,  I  shall  have 
gold  to  reward  your  care,  and  strength  to  proceed  on  my  jour 
ney." 

Of  course  he  gained  his  point,  for  when  did  Frederick  Hutton 


312  AGNES   LEE. 

ever  fail  so  to  do  ?  I  watched  his  course  after  that  for  years, 
and  I  never  knew  him  fail  to  accomplish  whatever  he  undertook. 
The  letter  was  written  and  sent,  and,  during  the  two  months 
which  glided  away  before  its  answer  came,  Frederick  Hutton  was 
my  constant  companion  in  all  my  rambles.  He  wanted  a  guide, 
and  took  me  in  the  absence  of  a  better ;  quite  careless  as  to  the 
effects  such  an  association  might  produce  upon  my  mind.  And 
yet,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was  really  very  good-natured ;  and 
when  he  found  out,  a  week  after  our  acquaintance  began,  that  I 
could  not  read,  he  set  himself  to  work  in  earnest,  to  supply  the 
deficiency.  I  loved  my  teacher,  and  my  progress  was  rapid. 

I  suppose  Frederick  Hutton  would  as  soon  have  thought  of 
winning  the  fisherman  himself  to  love  him,  as  me,  the  rough, 
wild-natured  child  of  his  adoption.  But  I  have  been  told,  by 
physiognomical  connoisseurs,  that  half  the  blood  in  my  veins  is 
Spanish ;  and  I,  uncultivated  child  of  thirteen  as  I  was,  loved 
the  handsome  young  Englishman  with  a  wilder  devotion  than 
many  a  grown  woman  is  capable  of.  0,  how  I  loved  him ! 

He  told  me  nothing  of  his  personal  history,  but  years  after 
wards  I  learned  that  he  was  very  rich  and  noble.  For  a  long 
time  I  was  unconscious  of  the  nature  of  my  own  love  for  him, 
until,  one  afternoon,  when  we  were  walking,  his  own  words  re 
vealed  it  to  me. 

"  So  they  call  you  Agnes  Lee,  do  they  ? "  he  asked,  pulling 
me  down  on  a  rock  beside  him,  and  leisurely  drawing  my  long 
hair  through  his  fingers.  "  How,  in  the  world,  came  you  by  such 
a  romantic  name  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  romantic  means,  sir,"  I  answered,  simply ; 
"but  they  call  me  Agnes  Lee,  because  on  St.  Agnes'  night  I  was 


AQNES   LEE.  313 

cast  upon  the  lee-shore  in  a  terrible  storm,  and  they  had  n't  any 
other  name  for  me  ?  " 

"  Ho  !  that 's  it,  is  it  ?  Quite  a  good  account!  You  must  have 
been  born  for  telling  stories.  Well,  I  Ve  a  mind  to  amuse  my 
self,  now,  telling  you  one.  Did  you  ever  hear  about  love  ?  But 
of  course  you  never  did,  you  who  never  saw  a  handsome  man  in 
your  life." 

"  Except  you,  sir,"  said  I,  looking  admiringly  into  his  bold,  hand 
some  face.  His  laughing  blue  eyes  twinkled  with  fun,  in  appre 
ciation  of  the  honestly-given  compliment ;  and  then  he  proceeded 
to  give  me  my  first  lesson  of  that  love,  stronger  than  life,  and 
more  powerful  than  death.  As  he  described  its  workings,  my 
cheek  flushed  crimson,  for  I  knew  that  even  so  I  loved  him.  At 
last  he  grew  weary  of  me,  or  of  his  subject,  and,  drawing  a  book 
from  his  pocket  (he  had  procured  several  from  the  next  market- 
town,  in  order  to  teach  me  to  read),  he  bade  me  run  away  for 
a  while  to  play,  and  come  again  when  I  got  tired. 

Slowly  I  sauntered  onward,  with  one  remark  which  he  had 
made  sounding  in  my  ears.  He  had  said, "  Love  seeks  beauty  as 
naturally  as  the  flowers  the  sunlight !  " 

Was  I  beautiful  ?  My  whole  mind  and  soul  were  full  of  the 
question.  At  last  I  remembered  a  sunny  pool  of  clear,  fresh 
water,  where  I  could  see  myself  as  in  a  mirror.  I  had  often 
looked  there,  to  adjust  my  sea-weed  wreaths ;  but  I  had  never 
noticed  my  face,  for  never,  until  this  afternoon,  had  the  question 
suggested  itself,  whether  I  was  beautiful.  Cautiously  I  crept  to 
the  brink,  and,  many  times  drawing  back  in  fear,  I  at  length 
looked  in.  I  unbound  my  tresses,  and  they  floated  almost  to  my 
feet,  long,  heavy,  and  black  as  night.  Set  in  them,  as  in  a  frame, 
27 


314  AGNES  LEE. 

a  face  looked  out,  —  a  childish,  sunburned  face.  There  were  eyes 
there  like  a  sloe's,  large,  black,  and  melting,  and  anon  flashing 
fire.  I  thought  they  might  be  beautiful,  but  I  was  not  sure.  As 
to  the  features,  I  was  not  very  well  competent  to  judge.  I  know 
now  that  they  were  regular  enough  for  a  sculptor's  model ;  then 
I  only  knew  that  Frederick  Hutton  was  handsome  —  my  face 
was  not  like  Frederick  Hutton's ;  therefore  I  thought  I  must  be 
homely.  But  I  was  not  satisfied.  I  stole  lingeringly  back  to  my 
companion,  and  found  him,  in  turn,  tired  of  his  book,  and  ready 
to  amuse  himself  with  me.  "  Please,  sir,  may  I  ask  you  a  ques 
tion  ?  "  I  inquired,  very  timidly. 

"  Why,  yes,  Miss  Agnes  Lee,  since  you  have  never  in  the 
world  done  such  a  thing,  I  rather  think  you  may." 

"  Well,  sir,  am  I  handsome  ?  " 

Frederick  laughed  long  and  loudly,  ere  he  replied, 

"  Well,  you  genuine  descendant  of  Mother  Eve,  you  precious 
little  specimen  of  feminine  humanity,  where  you  picked  up  your 
vanity,  nested  here  on  the  lee-shore,  like  a  sea-gull,  I  don't  know ; 
but  go  and  stand  there  in  the  sunshine,  and  I  '11  answer  you. 
Shake  down  your  long,  black  hair,  all  about  you,  gypsy,  —  there, 
that 's  right,  • —  now  stand  still !  " 

I  should  think  I  stood  still  there  a  minute  and  a  half,  waiting 
for  him  to  make  his  decision.  I  really  suffered  while  his  eyes 
were  so  bent  upon  me.  At  last,  his  fixed,  steady  look  was 
getting  to  be  torture,  and  it  was  an  inconceivable  relief  when  he 
made  answer, 

"  Well,  Aggie,  it  took  me  some  time  to  decide,  did  n't  it  ? 
No,  you  are  not  handsome  yet,  Aggie.  You  are  brown  as  a 
Malay,  and  there 's  something  almost  savage  in  your  fierce,  black 


AONES   LEE.  315 

eyes.  But  your  features  are  good  enough,  your  hair  is  long  and 
thick ;  and,  if  it  were  taken  care  of,  and  were  n't  sanburnt,  it 
might  be  magnificent.  As  it  is,  you  're  rather  homely ;  but,  if 
some  people  had  you,  you  might  be  made  a  very  handsome 
woman." 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  dearly  as  I  loved  him,  this  reply  gave 
me  pleasure,  instead  of  pain ;  though  I  well  knew,  had  he  loved 
me,  he  never  would  have  made  it.  But  I  don't  think  I  wanted 
him  to  love  me  then.  He  had  said  I  had  the  material  for  a 
handsome  woman,  and  that  was  all  I  wanted  to  know.  My 
heart  beat  quicker,  with  a  sense  of  power.  I  said  that  I  would 
make  him  know  I  was  beautiful,  some  time;  that,  some  other 
day,  I  would  make  his  proud  heart  quicken;  and  with  this  hope 
for  the  future  I  was  quite  content. 

One  day,  soon  after,  we  were  walking  together  over  the  rough 
rocks  bordering  the  shore.  I  remember  a  sense  of  life  swelled 
high  and  exultant  in  my  heart ;  and  I  bounded  over  the  steep 
est  ledges,  hardly  seeming  to  touch  them,  or  paused  to  balance 
myself  and  turn  around  on  their  sharpest  points. 

"  Come  down  here,  Agnes  Lee,"  said  Frederick  Hutton's  voice, 
at  length ;  and,  in  an  instant,  I  was  by  his  side. 

"I  've  been  thinking,"  he  remarked,  carelessly  binding  up  some 
strands  of  sea-weed,  "  I  've  been  thinking  that  you  would  make  a 
capital  ballet-dancer."  And  then  he  proceeded,  in  answer  to  my 
eager  inquiries,  to  explain  to  me  the  nature  of  theatrical  per 
formances  in  general,  and  ballet-dancing  in  particular. 

"  It 's  a  bad  life,"  he  concluded,  "  and  I  wouldn't  advise  you 
to  try  it.  But,  after  all,  I  don't  know  but  you'd  be  better 
«ff  there  than  here.  You  do  very  well  here  now,  but  what  '11  be- 

* 


316  AGNES   LEE. 

come  of  you  when  you  get  old  ?  If  you  could  get  to  be  prima- 
donna,  you  could  make  a  fortune,  if  you  would  only  keep  it.  Let 
me  tell  you  one  thing,  Agnes  :  some  people  think  all  dancing-girls 
are  wicked  ;  but  I  tell  you  it  is  the  soul  governs  the  profession, 
not  the  profession  the  soul ;  and  you  could  be  as  good  and  pure 
on  the  boards  of  the  Royal  Theatre  as  in  the  Hermitage  of 
Lough  Derg." 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  this  last  conversation  when  the 
answers  to  Frederic  Button's  letters  came ;  and,  having  liber 
ally  rewarded  the  honest  fisherman's  hospitality,  he  bade  fare 
well  to  the  lee-shore  of  Cornwall.  It  was  a  beautiful  morning 
in  the  early  autumn,  and  I  went  with  him  a  mile  or  two  on 
his  journey.  0,  how  gladly  the  waves  danced,-  and  the  sun 
shone  !  and  I  could  see  his  heart  was  dancing  too.  As  for  me, 
I  was  not  glad,  nor  yet  very  sorry ;  for  my  whole  heart  was 
filled  with  a  strong  under-lying  purpose.  Pausing,  at  length,  he 
let  go  my  hand. 

"  There,  Agnes,  you  must  go  home  now,"  he  said ;  "  good- 
by,  my  child ;"  and,  taking  a  guinea  from  his  pocket,  he  added, 
"  take  that,  Aggie ;  it 's  the  best  thing  I  've  got  to  give  you  to 
remember  me  by." 

"  Will  you  just  please  to  make  a  round  hole  in  it,  and  mark 
an  F.  on  it  somewhere  ?  "  I  pleadingly  inquired. 

"  Well,  here  's  one  with  a  hole  in  it ;  that  will  do and 

there,"  and,  sitting  down,  he  marked  "  F.  H."  in  bold,  distinct 
characters.  "  There,  little  one,  good-by,  now,"  and,  drawing  me 
to  him  he  kissed  me.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  done 
BO  —  the  first  kiss  man  had  ever  left  upon  my  lips ;  and  it  lin 
gered  there  for  weeks,  and  its  memory  had  power  to  thrill  mo 
for  many  a  year. 


AQNES  LEE.  317 


CHAPTER    III. 

Six  months  after  this,  I  woke  up,  one  spring  morning,  and 
found  myself  in  London.  I  do  not  know  how  I  got  there ; 
that  is,  even  to  this  day,  I  can  hardly  understand  the  perse 
verance  with  which  I,  an  unprotected  child,  walked  the  whole 
distance,  seeking  food  and  lodging  of  whoever  had  chaHty 
enough  to  shelter  me.  Providence  must  have  guided  me,  and  I 
think  so,  more  than  ever,  when  I  recall  a  singular  incident  which 
befell  me  on  my  arrival. 

It  was  afternoon  when  I  entered  the  great  whirlpool  of  Lon 
don.  Half-frightened  by  the  crowded  streets,  I  had  somehow 
made  my  way  to  the  Park,  and,  for  almost  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  I  sat  there  crying.  At  last  I  was  roused  from  my  sorrow 
ful  abstraction  by  a  gentle  touch  and  a  kind  voice ;  and,  looking 
up,  I  met  the  glance  of  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  clad  in  a  quiet 
citizen's  suit  of  black.  There  needed  but  one  look  at  his 
kindly  face  to  assure  me  I  could  trust  him ;  and  his  question, 
"  What  is  your  name,  my  child,  and  why  are  you  here  alone  ?  " 
was  immediately  followed  by  my  relating  to  him  my  whole  his 
tory,  save  only  that  portion  which  was  connected  with  my  love 
for  Frederic  Hutton. 

"  So  you  've  come  all  alone  to  this  far-off  London,  to  learn 
to  be  a  ballet-dancer?"  he  said,  kindly.  "I  must  say  it  is 
a  very  strange  undertaking.  The  chances  that  you  will  suc 
ceed  are  hardly  one  in  ten  thousand.  However,  you  could 
not  have  fallen  upon  a  better  friend.  I  am  a  theatre-manager 
myself,  and  I  '11  try  you ;  and,  if  I  find  you  can  do  anything,  I 
27* 


. 

318  AGNES   LEE. 

will  take  you  to  a  friend  of  mine  in  Paris,  where  I  am  going  on 
business,  and  you  shall  be  educated  for  the  stage." 

Thus  it  was,  reader,  that  my  first  night  in  London  was  passed 
in  a  respectable  lodging-house ;  and  I  woke  up  in  the  morning 
from  peaceful  dreams  under  the  mighty  shadow  of  St.  Paul's. 
My  protector  proceeded,  soon  after  I  arose,  to  put  me  through  a 
trial-course  of  calisthenics ;  and  I  suppose  the  result  was  satis 
factory,  for  a  dress-maker  was  sent  for,  and  requested  to  prepare 
me  for  a  journey  to  France,  and  a  residence  at  I'ecde  de 
theatre.  

Two  years  had  passed ;  I  was  now  fifteen.  They  had  been 
two  of  the  happiest  of  my  life.  True,  at  first  confinement  had 
been  irksome.  I  had  missed  the  wild,  wailing,  solitary  sea,  and 
the  free  rafrge  of  rocky  shore.  But  my  cherished  purpose  was 
every  day  drawing  nearer  its  accomplishment.  My  kind  pro 
tector  had  visited  me  several  times,  when  business  called  him  to 
France  ;  and  it  would  have  done  your  heart  good  to  see  his  kind, 
satisfied  smile,  when  he  received  a  favorable  report  of  my  prog 
ress. 

It  had  been  discovered,  in  the  course  of  my  instructions, 
that  I  had  a  voice  of  unequalled  power  and  pathos,  and  that  I 
should  be  able  to  succeed  as  a  cantatrice  with  even  less  trouble 
than  as  a  danseuse ;  but  I  had  marked  out  my  own  course.  I 
could  not  consecrate  every  gift  to  the  insatiable  spirit  of  the 
stage.  I  must  retain  some  power  not  thus  prostituted,  to  make 
beautiful  my  private  life.  However,  I  cultivated  my  voice  most 
assiduously,  and  was,  in  a  short  time,  pronounced  the  best  singer 
in  Vecole. 


AGNES  LEE.  319 

There  were,  in  the  same  institution,  a  large  number  of  young 
girls,  more  or  less  gifted,  preparing  for  the  stage ;  but  among 
them  all,  I  had  but  one  friend, — Inez  Vaughan.  She  has,  since 
then,  under  another  name,  made  the  world's  heart  throb  strangely. 
She  flashed,  comet-like,  upon  the  age,  the  very  impersonation 
of  the  genius  of  tragedy.  The  great  world  held  its  breath  to 
listen;  but,  comet-like,  she  was  struck  down  suddenly,  and  the 
Provence  roses  bloom  upon  her  grave. 

I  could  easily  discern  that  there  were  no  others  whose  ac 
quaintance  would  not  rather  retard  the  accomplishment  of  my 
great  end ;  but  Inez  and  I  became  friends,  in  that  word's  truest 
sense.  We  studied  and  read  together,  and  she  would  sit  beside 
me,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  like  lighted  coals,  while  I  told  her 
strange,  wild  tales  of  the  rocky  shore,  and  the  surging,  restless 
sea.  * 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  I  was  fifteen.  My  two  years'  study  had 
been  completed,  and  the  night  was  appointed  on  which  I  was  to 
make  my  debut  at  the  Royal  Theatre.  I  had  grown  very  beau 
tiful  ;  no  one  who  had  known  me  as  the  romping  child  of 
the  fisherman's  hut  would  have  recognized  me  now.  My  hair 
was  long,  and  heavy,  and  luxuriant  as  ever ;  but  now  it  was  satin- 
smooth,  and  from  its  wavy  folds  seemed  to  flash  sparks  of  light. 
My  complexion,  by  proper  care,  had  cleared  up  wonderfully ; 
now  it  was  like  the  sunny  side  of  a  ripe  peach,  only  deepening  in 
the  cheeks  to  a  richer  crimson  than  peaches  ever  wore.  The  eyes 
were  the  same,  —  large,  black,  and  strangely  lustrous,  —  and  the 
wan,  thin  figure  of  the  child  had  rounded  in  the  girl  to  a  sym 
metry  as  perfect  as  it  was  stately.  Yes,  I  was  very  beautiful. 

I  arrayed  myself  for  the  occasion  in  a  crimson  satin,  heavily 


320  AGNES   LEE. 

wrought  with  pearls.  Around  my  neck  and  arms  were  chains  of 
pearls  and  rubies,  fantastically  twisted  together,  fastened  with 
gold  clasps,  in  which  a  single  diamond  flashed  like  a  burning 
star.  Strings  of  the  same  jewels  flashed  among  the  heavy  bands 
of  my  braided  hair,  and. I  almost  started  back  in  wonder  as  I 
glanced  at  my  full-length  reflection  in  the  green-room  mirror,  it 
seemed  so  like  some  old  picture,  with  its  strangely  vivid  lights 
and  shades. 

That  night  my  triumph  was  complete.  The  whole  house  rang 
with  applause,  and  many  of  the  bouquets  thrown  at  my  feet  were 
knotted  with  jewels.  I  welcomed  this  success,  for  it  was  one 
stepping-stone  the  more  toward  my  great  end.  0,  how  I  wished 
he  had  been  there  to  see  it !  But  never  once  had  my  eyes  rested 
on  him  since  we  parted  in  the  sunshine  on  the  desolate  Cornwall 
shore.  ' 

All  that  season  I  continued  to  draw  crowded  houses,  and  on 
my  last  night  the  theatre  was  filled  to  overflowing.  I  had  never 
looked  better.  My  costume  was  one  just  calculated  to  set  off"  my 
dark,  oriental  beauty,  and  it  was  in  full  glow.  Half  an  hour 
had  passed,  when  a  new  arrival,  in  one  of  the  front  boxes,  seemed 
to  create  a  sensation.  I  glanced  that  way,  and  my  eyes  met 
the  most  perfect  vision  of  feminine  loveliness  on  which  they  had 
ever  rested. 

Her  style  of  beauty  was  totally  different  from  mine ;  and  I 
looked  on  her,  at  first,  with  an  artist's  admiration,  unmingled  with 
envy  or  jealousy.  She  wore  a  garnet-colored  velvet  cloak,  lined 
with  ermine  ;  but,  as  she  entered  the  box,  it  fell  from  her  neck, 
revealing  shoulders  white  as  Caucasian  snow-banks,  and  moulded 
as  purely  as  a  Grecian  statue.  Her  hair  was  of  a  bright  gold  tint, 


AGNES   LEE.  321 

and  the  heavy  ringlets  were  gathered  at  the  neck  in  a  net-work 
of  pearls,  from  which  one  or  two  stray  tresses  had  escaped,  and 
floated  down  over  her  neck  and  bosom.  Her  robe  was  of  azure 
satin,  frosted  with  pearls ;  and  her  fan  was  gorgeous  with  the 
plumage  of  tropical  birds.  Her  eyes  were  a  deep,  tranquil  blue, 
large,  and  strangely  bright ;  and  her  fair  complexion,  pure  and 
clear  as  marble,  was  deepened  in  the  cheeks  with  a  just-percepti 
ble  tint  of  rose. 

My  eye  had  taken  in  all  this  at  one  glance.  She  seemed  to 
me  like  the  actual  presence  of  one  of  those  beautiful  pictures  be 
fore  which  I  had  stood  with  filling  eyes  in  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre,  and  from  my  heart  I  blessed  her  for  her  loveliness,  as 
I  turned  to  gaze  upon  her  companion. 

Saint  Agnes  !  patron  saint  of  mine !  why  was  it  that  in  that 
instant  a  deep  and  bitter  hatred  for  that  beautiful  being  crept 
into  my  heart  ?  Her  companion  was  Frederick  Hutton !  It  was 
his  hand  that  so  carefully  adjusted  the  folds  of  her  cloak,  his 
eye  that  watched  so  eagerly  her  every  look. 

I  danced  that  night  as  I  had  never  danced  before.  Deafening 
roars  of  applause  fairly  shook  the  building  to  its  centre :  but,  of 
all  that  gorgeous  crowd,  I  saw  but  one.  It  was  a  full  half-hour 
before  he  seemed  even  to  notice  me,  and  then  he  carelessly  turned 
his  opera-glass  toward  the  stage. 

I  danced  to  him,  at  him  —  what  you  will ;  at  least,  I  danced 
for  his  eyes  only.  And  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  per 
fectly  absorbed,  entranced,  and  apparently  quite  forgetful  of 
the  presence  of  his  companion.  That  was  my  last  opera  in 
the  season,  and  a  few  months  afterwards  I  was  in  London,  pleas 
antly  established  in  fashionable  apartments  at  the  West  End. 


622  AGNES   LEE. 

"  Agnes,"  said  my  guardian  (for  so  I  had  learned  to  call  my 
fatherly  protector),  entering  my  room,  one  morning,  "  there  are 
yet  six  weeks  before  your  first  engagement  here  commences. 
What  do  you  say  to  a  masquerade,  in  the  mean  time  ?  I 
have  plenty  of  relatives  among  the  West-End  fashionables,  and 
I  should  find  no  difficulty  in  having  you  introduced  as  Miss  Agnes 
Lee,  in  circles  where  no  one  would  ever  dream  of  Viola  the 
ballet-dancer  being  admitted.  Will  you  go  ?  " 

While  he  spoke,  an  intense  longing  took  possession  of  my 
heart  to  gaze  face  to  face  on  that  great  world  of  which  I  had 
heard  so  much.  True,  I  had  seen  people  enough.  I  had  danced 
to  crowded  audiences,  —  but  of  fashionable  society  I  was  as 
ignorant  as  a  child.  But  I  presume  very  little  of  my  enthusiasm 
appeared  in  my  manner,  as  I  lifted  my  eyes,  and  said,  quietly, 

"  Yes,  guardian,  I  will  go." 

"  Well,  I  thought  so ;  it 's  so  like  girls  to  want  to  see  the 
world !  So  I  've  made  arrangements  accordingly,  and  I  've  two 
invitations  for  you,  from  two  very  fashionable  ladies,  who  are 
under  some  obligations  to  me.  Here  is  one  from  Mrs.  Somerby, 
to  her  estate,  '  The  Grange,'  a  little  out  of  town.  You  'd  meet 
there  a  half-score  of  ladies,  beside  Simmons,  and  Falconbrace, 
and  a  dozen  other  young  men  who  would  fall  in  love  with  you. 
You  'd  have  to  look  out  for  your  own  heart,  because  their  cards 
would  be  played  out  as  soon  as  they  knew  your  true  position." 

"  Well,  sir,  where  is  the  other  one  ?  " 

«  That?  0,  that 's  further  out  of  town  —  to  the  Heronry,  the 
estate  of  Mrs.  Somerville  Sikes,  and  you  would  n't  find  anybody 
there  to  fall  in  love  with.  There  '11  be  one  man  of  mark  there, 
though,  —  Fred  Hutton ;  but  Lady  Clara  Emerson  will  be  there, 


AONES   LEE.  323 

also,  and  they  Ve  been  reported  engaged  so  many  times,  I  think 
there  must  bo  something  in  it." 

Frederick  Hutton !  0,  how  the  very  mention  of  his  name 
thrilled  me  !  Could  it  be  ?  Was  I  indeed  to  see  him,  —  to  be 
in  the  same  house  with  him  once  more  ?  My  heart  fluttered  like 
a  caged  bird,  but  my  nerves  were  strong,  and  my  self-command 
perfect ;  so  I  answered,  carelessly, 

"  Well,  sir,  I  believe  I  '11  choose  the  Heronry ;  you  know 
there  's  no  knowing  what  might  become  of  my  heart  at  the  other 
place." 

My  guardian  laughed,  and,  patting  my  cheek  pleasantly,  went 
out  to  hunt  me  up  a  dressing-maid,  and  provide  me  with  a  suit 
able  wardrobe. 

The  next  day,  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  I  was  whirled  up  the 
spacious  carriage-drive  of  the  Heronry,  and  introduced  to  the 
stately  Mrs.  Somerville  Sikes.  She  was  a  lady  of,  I  should 
think,  about  forty,  extremely  well  preserved,  and  very  elegantly 
dressed.  There  was  an  air  of  patrician  ease  and  gracefulness 
about  her,  such  as  I  had  never  before  observed  in  any  lady  with 
whom  I  had  been  thrown  in  contact. 

She  welcomed  me  cordially,  and  went  up  stairs  with  me  to 
my  own  room ;  then,  kissing  me,  she  remarked,  "  I  will  send  your 
maid  to  you,  my  dear ;  you  will  have  just  time  to  dress  for 
dinner."  0,  what  would  I  not  have  given  to  have  dared  to 
inquire  if  Frederick  Hutton  had  arrived !  But  I  could  not  trust 
myself  to  mention  his  name,  and  I  threw  myself  in  an  easy-chair, 
and  sent  my  thoughts  backward  with  memory,  while  my  maid 
unbound  the  long  tresses  of  my  hair. 

When,  at  last,  its  arrangement  was  completed,  I  arrayed  my- 


324  AGNES   LEE. 

self,  with  trembling  fingers,  in  a  richly-wrought  India  muslin. 
Nothing  could  have  exceeded  the  simplicity  of  my  attire.  The 
white  dress  was  without  ornament,  and  I  wore  not  a  single  jewel, 
with  only  a  sprig  of  cape-jasmine  in  the  dark  folds  of  my  hair. 
I  turned  to  the  mirror,  as  I  was  drawing  on  my  gloves,  and  saw 
that,  though  I  had  many  times  been  more  dazzlingly  brilliant,  I 
had  never  looked  more  beautiful ;  and  yet  my  step  faltered  as  I 
entered  the  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Sikes  advanced  to  meet  me,  and  I  was  formally  presented 
to  the  company ;  but  my  eye  took  in  but  two  faces,  my  ear 
caught  but  two  names.  Clara  Emerson  was  there,  with  her  face 
so  strangely  fair  in  its  quiet  beauty,  and  her  slender  figure  robed 
in  azure  silk.  A  wreath  of  white  buds  nestled  in  her  golden 
curls,  and  she  looked  even  more  lovely  than  when  I  had  first 
seen  her.  Beside  her  sat  Frederick  Hutton.  His  was  truly  the 
handsomest  face  my  eyes  ever  rested  on.  He  was,  indeed, 
as  my  guardian  had  said,  a  man  of  mark;  with  his  Apollo 
Belvidere  figure,  his  hyacinthine  locks,  and  his  laughing  dark- 
blue  eyes.  The  Lady  Clara  looked  up,  smiled,  and  spoke 
very  sweetly ;  but  Frederick  seemed  so  intent  on  his  conversation 
with  her,  that  he  merely  noticed  me  by  a  bow.  A  moment  after, 
however,  as  Mrs.  Sikes  repeated  my  name,  "  Miss  Agnes  Lee," 
he  paused  in  his  conversation,  and  I  knew,  by  his  puzzled  face, 
he  was  remembering  that  he  had  heard  that  name  before ;  but  he 
could  not  recall  the  time,  and  I  felt  relieved.  But,  even  if  he 
had,  he  would  hardly  have  associated  the  fisher-girl  of  the  Corn 
wall  lee-shore  with  the  very  different  looking  young  lady  pre 
sented  to  him  in'  Mrs.  Sikes'  drawing-room. 

O 

He  sat  opposite  to  me  at  dinner,  but  his  attention  was  wholly 


AGNES  LEE.  325 

engrossed  by  his  companion.  Once,  indeed,  he  casually  glanced 
at  me,  and  then  I  heard  him  remarking  to  Lady  Clara  that 
"  Miss  Lee  was  magnificently  handsome ; "  and  then  he  added, 
"  but  her  style  is  so  different  from  yours,  ma  belle  Clara,"  in  a 
tone  which  left  the  listener  little  room  for  conjecture  as  to  which 
style  he  preferred. 

During  the  evening  I  had  been  making  painful  efforts  to  be 
agreeable  to  some  dowager  countesses,  until  I  was  tired ;  when, 
much  to  my  delight,  my  task  was  interrupted  by  a  call  for  music, 
and  the  Lady  Clara  Emerson  was  led  to  the  piano.  Her  per 
formance  was  mediocre,  perhaps  a  trifle  better  than  that  of 
boarding-school  misses  in  general.  She  affected  opera  airs,  for 
the  most  part,  and,  though  Frederick  Button  leaned  over  her,  and 
turned  her  music,  I  could  see  he  was  neither  interested  nor  ani 
mated  ;  and  yet  I  knew  that  music  was  his  passion.  At  last 
Lady  Clara  arose  from  the  instrument. 

"  Perhaps  Miss  Lee  will  favor  us,"  suggested  Mrs.  Sikes ;  and 
Frederick  Hutton  came  to  my  side,  to  lead  me  to  the  instrument 
His  hand  just  touched  mine  as  I  took  my  seat,  and,  strong  as 
my  nerves  were,  it  thrilled  me  strangely.  I  sang  an  old  Scotch 
ballad  of  hopeless  love,  —  a  song  that  required  power  and  pathos, 
—  and  I  sang  it  well. 

I  dared  not  glance  at  Frederick,  but  I  could  hear  his  quick 
ened  breathing,  I  could  almost  seem  to  feel  his  attitude  of  rapt 
attention ;  and  I  knew  he  recognized  my  power.  For  a  week 
after  that  he  scarcely  spoke  to  me.  His  attention  was  still 
absorbed  by  the  beautiful  Clara ;  and  yet,  sometimes,  when  he 
was  sitting  by  her  side,  I  would  raise  my  eyes  from  my  embroi 
dery,  and  meet  a  glance  from  the  distant  corner  where  they  were 
28 


326  AGNES  LEE. 

sitting,  that  would  cause  my  cheek  to  crimson  beneath  my  droop 
ing  lashes.  When  I  sang,  Frederick  never  came  near  me ;  but 
I  knew  he  listened,  and  that,  let  him  struggle  as  he  would,  one 
day  my  purpose  would  meet  its  accomplishment. 


CHAPTER     IV. 

The  human  will  is  strong,  stronger  than  life,  and  even  death 
will  not  triumph  over  it  utterly !  I  wonder  whether  man  or 
woman  ever  yet  devoted  themselves,  with  all  their  energies,  to 
the  accomplishment  of  a  favorite  purpose,  without  succeeding. 
At  least,  success  is  the  rule,  and  failure  the  exception. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Frederick  Hutton  gradually  changed  in 
his  deportment.  His  attentions  to  the  beautiful  Clara  became 
a  shade  or  two  less  engrossing,  and  very  often  he  would  lead  me 
to  the  piano,  and  hang  over  me  during  my  performance,  with  his 
whole  soul  looking  out  of  his  dark  eyes.  The  Lady  Clara  must 
have  noticed  it,  and  I  think  she  loved  him ;  but  her  disposition 
was  a  singular  one.  She  was  too  proudly  indolent  to  struggle 
for  the  possession  of  anything.  She  dressed  as  becomingly, 
talked  as  prettily,  and  smiled  as  sweetly,  as  ever.  When  Fred 
erick  Hutton  sat  down  beside  her,  she  welcomed  him  with  a  look 
that  had  not  the  slightest  shade  of  reproach  in  it ;  and  when  he 
was  away,  she  seemed  totally  unconscious  of  his  desertion.  No 
battery  of  attractions  could  have  been  half  so  effective  as  this 
calm,  indifferent  dignity.  I  could  not  have  had  a  more  powerful 
adversary  to  contend  with.  Sometimes  Frederick  would  watch 
her  for  a  long  time,  and  then  turn  away,  with  just  the  queerest 


AGNES   LEE.  327 


kind  of  smile  about  his  lips,  and  talk  to  me  more  assiduously 
than  ever. 

One  night,  I  was  walking  in  the  shrubbery.  It  was  the  rich, 
lustrous  prime  of  the  summer ;  the  sun  had  gone  down  in  his 
glory,  and  the  twilight  hours  had  gathered  up  the  gorgeous 
clouds,  like  drapery  of  kings.  It  was  evening ;  the  moon,  like 
a  fair  queen,  sat  on  her  silver  throne,  among  her  parliament  of 
stars.  I  had  gone  out  alone,  and,  with  a  hurried  step,  was 
walking  to  and  fro  beneath  the  larches,  keeping  tune  to  painful 
thoughts.  At  last  my  step  grew  slower,  and  my  mood  changed. 
I  went  down  with  memory,  searching  for  hidden  treasures 
along  the  paths  of  the  past ;  and  tears  came  to  my  eyes,  as 
I  remembered  the  free,  happy,  gypsy-like  life  I  had  led,  before 
Frederick  Hutton  came  to  Cornwall. 

"  Better,  0,  how  far  better  off  was  I  then  than  now  !  "  said 
my  throbbing  heart,  beating  painfully  against  my  velvet  robe. 
"  Alas !  for  I  am  weary,"  said  my  lips  aloud ;  and,  at  that 
moment,  a  voice,  whose  faintest  tone  could  have  almost  called 
me  from  life  to  death,  said,  very  gently, 

"  Agnes  —  Miss  Lee  —  am  I  intruding  ?  " 

I  turned,  and  welcomed  him,  with  the  tears  still  heavy  on  my 
]  ashes,  and  the  shadow  heavier  on  my  heart. 

"  You  are  sad,  Agnes,"  he  said,  sorrowfully,  taking  my  hand 
in  his,  as  soothingly  as  one  would  pet  a  weary  infant.  "  Agnes, 
dear,  beautiful  Agnes,  I  love  you !  I  never  said  those  words 
before,  Agnes,  to  any  woman,  not  even  to  Clara  Emerson ; 
though  long  ago  the  great  world  voted  us  engaged.  You  will 
understand  them,  —  you  will  believe  them.  I  did  not  mean 
to  love  you,  Agnes,  —  I  closed  my  eyes  against  your  beauty, 


828  AGNES   LEE. 

—  I  tried  to  shut  my  heart  against  the  melody  of  your  voice ; 
but  you  have  triumphed.  See,  I  am  at  your  feet !  Won't  you, 
can't  you  love  me,  my  Agnes  ?  " 

But  I  did  not  speak ;  I  could  not.  The  hope  of  a  lifetime 
had  met  its  fulfilment  when  I  heard  him  say  those  words,  and  I 
could  not  answer  him. 

"  0,  Agnes,  Agnes  !  "  he  cried,  beseechingly,  "  only  answer 
me  !  only  say,  '  Frederick,  I  love  you  ! '  " 

And,  clearing  my  voice,  and  drawing  my  figure  to  its  fullest 
height,  I  stood  there  in  the  moonlight,  under  the  larches,  and 
answered  him, 

"  Frederick  Hutton,  I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul,  as  I  have 
loved  you  for  years.  I  am  yours,  and  I  will  be  yours,  and  no 
other  man's,  till  I  die  ! " 

In  his  excitement  he  did  not  notice  that  I  had  said  "  for 
years ;  "  and,  standing  by  my  side,  he  clasped  me  to  his  heart, 
whispering,  "  My  Agnes,  —  my  wife  !  " 

For  one  moment,  sick  and  faint  with  joy,  I  suffered  my  head 
to  lie  upon  his  breast ;  and  then  I  withdrew  from  his  arms,  and 
said,  firmly,  "  No,  Frederick  Hutton,  not  your  wife ;  and,  if  you 
knew  me,  you  would  sooner  die  than  call  me  so.  You  know  not 
who  or  what  I  am  !  " 

"  And  care  not,  Agnes,  so  that  you  will  let  me  call  you  mine. 
Nay,  Agnes,  do  not  think  so  meanly  of  me.  I  care  not  for 
wealth  or  rank;  —  I  know  that  I  love  you,  and  that  is  all  I  ask 
to  know." 

1  am  very  strong-willed,  naturally,  but  I  could  not  summon 
strength  or  courage  to  dash,  with  my  own  hands,  that  blessed 


AGNES   LEE. 


night,  the  cup  of  joy  from  my  lips ;  and  I  answered  him,  reso 
lutely, 

"  To-night,  Frederick,  I  will  tell  you  nothing.  Meet  me  here 
at  sunrise,  to-morrow  morning,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  you  little 
dream.  I  am  going  in,  now." 

Once  more  I  passively  suffered  him  to  fold  me  to  his  heart ; 
for  the  second  time  in  his  life  his  lips  touched  mine,  and  then, 
gliding  from  his  arms,  I  reentered  the  Heronry.  That  evening 
I  was  happy.  I  resolutely  closed  my  eyes  against  the  shadows 
that  hung  around  the  morrow,  and  opened  my  heart  to  the  joy- 
touches  of  the  present.  He  never  left  my  side,  and,  when  I 
sang,  he  watched  me  with  his  dark  eyes  beaming  through  tears. 

The  next  morning  arose,  fair  and  calm.  I  dressed  myself 
quickly,  and  hastened  to  the  trysting-place.  Frederick  was  there 
before  me.  What  a  joyousness  there  was  in  his  greeting! 
Surely  I  must  wait  yet  longer,  ere  I  could  summon  courage  to 
freeze  the  smile  on  his  lips.  Once  more  I  yielded  my  hand  to 
his  clasp,  and  wandered  along  with  him  underneath  the  larches. 
The  sun  was  just  rising.  The  tree-tops  glowed  like  golden 
arrows,  pointed  with  diamonds ;  the  long  grass,  knotted  together, 
shone  like  a  fairy  tracery  of  brilliants,  and  over  all  the  sun 
shine  lay,  broad  and  fair,  —  the  very  smile  of  the  gods.  .  Its 
glad  beams  rested  like  a  blessing  on  Frederick  Button's  hair, 
and  the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  dressed  in  holiday  robes, 
as  if  for  a  rejoicing.  And  yet,  amid  all  that  beauty,  and  glory, 
and  happiness,  I  walked  on  by  his  side,  a  crushed,  dowr.cast, 
miserable  woman,  with  a  confession  trembling  on  my  lips  -which 
would  blot  out  from  my  own  life  all  the  sunlight,  and  send  one 
forth,  dearer  than  my  life,  out  into  the  world,  a  heart-broken, 
28* 


330  AGNES   LEE. 

hopelessly  wretched  man.  I  could  not  look  at  him,  —  I  could 
scarcely  breathe.  At  last,  I  could  walk  no  further.  I  leaned 
against  one  of  the  larches ;  I  stood  there,  and  lifted  up  my 
pallid,  woful  face,  in  the  light  of  heaven's  free  sunshine. 
Frederick  turned  and  looked  at  me,  with  a  vague  and  nameless 
terror  in  his  gaze,  and  then  he  faltered,  "  Agnes,  my  Agnes, 
what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Listen,  Frederick  Hutton,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  I  answered, 
and  my  voice  was  strangely  calm.  "  You  remember  the  fisher 
man's  hut,  on  the  Cornwall  lee-shore,  and  the  wild,  rude  child 
whom  you  taught  to  read  ?  And  you  remember  this !  "  and  I 
drew  from  my  bosom,  where  I  had  always  worn  it,  the  guinea 
he  had  given  me  when  we  parted.  He  took  it  in  his  hand,  and 
looked  at  it. 

"  Yes,  I  remember,  Agnes ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Go  on,  — 
how  came  you  by  this  ? " 

"  You  gave  it  to  me,  sir ;  for  I  am  that  lowly  child.  Would 
you  call  me  wife,  now  ?  " 

Brave,  noble  heart !  I  could  see  the  struggle  ere  he  answered ; 
but  his  love  triumphed. 

"  Yes,  Agnes,  I  would  call  you  wife,  even  now.  It  was  your 
misfortune  to  have  been  cast  upon  the  lee-shore ;  so  it  was  mine. 
Shall  I  shut  you  out  of  my  heart  because  you  stayed  there  a 
longer  time,  my  Agnes  ?  " 

O,  I  had  hoped  he  would  have  spared  me  that  last  trial ;  but 
no,  I  must  drain  the  bitter  potion  to  the  dregs,  and  so  I  did. 

"  No,  Frederick  Hutton  !  Not  your  Agnes  !  I  will  never  be 
your  wife  !  You  saw  me  upon  the  stage  at  Paris ;  for,  listen, 
Frederick, — I  am  Viola,  the  dancing-girl ! " 


AGNES   LEE.  331 

"  0,  God  !  0,  God  !  "  moaned  that  strong  man,  weeping  like 
a  child.  "  Spare  me,  for  this  is  bitter  ! " 

I  knew  then,  as  I  had  known  before,  that  he  was  lost  to  me 
forever.  I  had  willed  that  he  should  love  me,  and  he  did  love 
me.  Perhaps  I  might  have  been  his  wife,  had  I  willed  that  also ; 
but  I  would  not.  Even  had  he  wished  it,  out  of  the  might  of 
his  great  love,  still  would  I  have  refused ;  for  I  loved  him  too 
well,  too  unselfishly,  ever  to  couple  his  proud  name  with  disgrace. 
At  last,  he  drew  me  within  his  arms  once  more. 

"  Agnes,"  he  said,  "  my  own,  my  beautiful !  —  God  knows  I 
would  have  gone  down  gladly  to  my  death,  rather  than  live  and 
know  that  fate  had  put  this  stern  and  terrible  barrier  between 
us.  0,  may  Heaven  bless  thee,  Agnes,  and  save  thee  from  grief 
like  mine ! "  and  down,  over  my  face,  fell,  like  rain,  the  bitter, 
scalding  tears  of  that  proud  man's  sorrow. 

That  day,  I  left  the  Heronry.  The  purpose  to  which  I  had 
vowed  my  life  was  accomplished,  and  even  in  the  hour  of  its  ac 
complishment  its  curse  came  with  it.  Better  far  that  I  had 
died,  than  brought  such  sorrow  to  him,  so  noble,  so  dear.  And 
yet  I  danced  that  winter  better  than  ever.  The  smile  that 
curled  my  lips  was  as  bright ;  the  bloom  died  not  out  from  my 
cheeks,  nor  the  light  from  my  eyes.  Still  the  world's  homage 
fell  upon  my  ear,  and  even  the  noble  and  the  gifted  knelt  at  the 
feet  of  the  beautiful  dancing-girl.  Very  often  the  Lady  Clara 
"Emerson  was  among  the  spectators ;  but  I  never  knew  whether 
she  recognized  in  Viola  the  Miss  Lee  she  had  met  at  the  Heronry. 
I  thought  her  cheek  was  a  little  paler  than  of  old ;  and  some 
how  the  old  hatred  toward  her  crept  out  of  my  heart,  and  into 
its  place  stole  a  gentle  sympathy.  I  heard  of  Frederick  Hutton 


332  AGNES   LEE. 

upon  the  continent,  and,  amid  all  my  heart-poverty  and  wretched 
ness,  my  life  had  one  crowning  glory  —  I  knew  he  loved  me ! 


CHAPTER   v. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  second  winter  after  I  had 
parted  with  him  at  the  Heronry.  I  was  no  longer  a  ballet- 
dancer.  With  the  departure  of  him  I  loved,  came  a  full  convic 
tion  that  hereafter  I  had  no  private  life  to  make  rich,  —  that  I 
must  give  all  to  the  world.  I  had  commenced  to  sing,  and  I  was 
now  prima  donna  of  her  Majesty's  theatre. 

It  was  almost  the  last  night  of  the  season.  I  had  gone  to  the 
green-room  with  a  heavy  weight  upon  my  heart ;  but  I  shook 
it  off,  and  perhaps  sang  even  better  than  usual.  At  last  the 
audience  dispersed,  and,  going  down  by  the  private  entrance,  I 
stepped  into  my  carriage  ;  but,  seeing  the  outline  of  a  man's  form 
upon  the  seat,  I  was  about  to  spring  back,  and  summon  my  ser 
vants  to  my  assistance,  when  a  voice  I  had  heard  in  the  dreams 
of  many  a  night  whispered,  "  Agnes !  "  I  called  "  Home  !  "  to 
my  coachman,  and  sat  down.  As  the  carriage  turned,  the  gas 
light  flashed  full  in  my  companion's  face.  I  could  scarcely  re 
strain  a  shriek  of  surprise.  Frederick  Hutton  had  changed  so, 
one  would  hardly  recognize  him. 

"  You  are  surprised,  Agnes,"  he  said,  gently,  "  at  the  work 
trouble  has  done.  Never  mind,  —  I  shall  only  be  at  rest  the  sooner. 
I  don't  know  what  made  me  come  to  seek  you,  Agnes,  this  night, 
of  all  others.  I  am  to  be  married  to-morrow.  I  came  home,  and 
found  that  Clara  had  suffered  terribly.  She  did  not  know  that  I 


AGNES  LEE.  333 

had  ever  loved  another ;  but  my  long-continued  attentions  to  her 
had  won  her  heart,  and,  upon  my  desertion,  the  whole  joy  and 
hope  of  her  life  seemed  to  pass  away.  I  was  too  wretched  myself 
to  wish  to  be  the  instrument  of  like  misery  to  another.  My  heart 
smote  me  when  I  looked  upon  her  pale  face,  and  I  resolved  to 
make  what  reparation  I  could,  by  giving  her  my  hand  and  what 
of  life  remained." 

He  paused,  but  I  felt  that  my  voice  was  full  of  tears ;  I  said 
nothing,  and  he  continued,  "  Agnes,  I  know  your  strength  of  love ; 
but  your  frame  is  strong,  too  ;  perhaps  you  will  suffer  more  than 
I,  but  you  will  live  longer.  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something, 
will  you  ?  I  will  send  for  you  when  I  am  dying,  and  I  want  you 
to  come.  Will  you  come,  Agnes,  wherever  you  are  ?  Will  you 
promise  me  to  come  ?  "  And,  putting  my  hand  in  his,  I  answered 
"  I  will  come !  "  and  it  was  to  both  our  souls  as  if  an  oath  had 
been  spoken. 


I  saw  Frederick  Hutton  once  more.  Three  years  had  passed, 
and  I  was  rich.  I  had  left  the  stage,  and  was  residing  on 
my  own  estate,  a  lovely  villa  in  the  south  of  France.  I  was 
scarcely  more  than  twenty,  and  still  beautiful,  though  trouble 
had  wrought  many  a  thread  of  silver  in  my  hair.  I  think 
my  taste  must  have  been  tropical ;  for  you  might  have  fancied 
my  loudoir  the  abode  of  a  Sultana.  A  fountain  of  perfumed 
waters  danced  and  sparkled  in  its  marble  basin,  in  the  centre. 
A  glass  door  opened  into  a  small  but  choice  conservatory,  where 
grew  the  Indian  aloe,  with  its  broad  green  leaves ;  and  gay 
tropical  birds  plumed  their  wings  on  the  whispering  boughs  of 


334 


AGNES    LEE. 


the  Eastern  palm.  Tiny,  graceful  little  streams  flowed  among 
thick,  mossy  grass ;  and  beneath  the  Indian  trees,  half  hidden  in 
the  foliage,  stood  groups  of  marble  statuary,  that  you  might  have 
dreamed  were  Fauns  and  Hamadryads,  the  guardian  spirits  of 
the  scene.  Around  the  walls  of  my  favorite  room  I  had  hung  a 
few  pictures,  small,  but  choice ;  they  were  mostly  woodland  land 
scapes,  with  here  and  there  one  of  Claude  Lorraine's  Italian 
sunsets,  or  a  head  by  Perugino.  On  the  floor  were  rich,  heavy 
mattings,  from  the  far-famed  looms  of  the  Indies ;  and  lounges 
and  cushions  of  Genoa  velvet,  in  crimson  and  purple,  were  scat 
tered,  with  lavish  prodigality,  around.  On  one  of  these  I  lay 
reading,  and  listlessly  winding  around  my  fingers  my  unbound 
hair,  when  my  favorite  waiting-maid,  entering  the  apartment, 
handed  me  a  letter.  I  recognized  the  hand-writing,  and  my 
fingers  trembled  as  I  broke  the  seal.  It  was  long,  and  closely- 
written  ;  but  I  will  copy  it  all  here.  It  ran  thus : 

"  AGNES,  MY  SOUL'S  OWN  AGNES  :  — 

"  Many  months  have  passed  since  last  we  met.  Summers  and 
winters  have  been  braided  into  years,  and  still  on  my  heart  is 
your  name  written;  not  one  hieroglyph  that  you  traced  there 
has  been  obliterated.  Heart  and  soul  I  am,  what  I  always  have 
been,  yours!  I  married  Clara  the  day  succeeding  our  last  meeting, 
and  I  love  her  very  much.  Can  you  reconcile  this  with  what  I 
have  just  written  ?  I  am  yours,  as  I  said ;  you,  even  you,  my 
Agnes,  are  more  to  me  than  all  the  rest  of  earth ;  but  it  is  much 
to  feel  we  can  make  another  human  being  entirely  happy. 

"  I  told  you  Clara  was  sorrow-struck  and  drooping.  Well, 
after  our  marriage,  she  brightened  up  in  my  presence,  as  a  wood- 


• 

AGNES   LEE.  335 

flower,  beaten  down  by  the  wind  and  rain,  but  yet  not  crushed, 
revives  in  the  calm  glow  of  the  sunshine.  Soon  she  regained 
her  health,  and  I  believe  she  grew  dear  to  me  as  a  sister. 
My  own  health  was  failing  even  then,  and  for  many  weeks  I  was 
prostrated  by  a  low,  nervous  fever.  During  all  that  time,  she 
was  so  devoted  in  her  attentions,  so  patient  in  her  tireless  vigils, 
you  would  have  thought  her  some  angel  sent  from  heaven  to  guard 
me.  And  yet,  Agnes,  through  it  all,  grateful  as  my  heart  was 
to  her,  it  never  beat  with  a  single  throb  that  was  not  faithful  to 
you.  I  loved  you,  —  you  only,  you  always. 

"  For  a  time  after  my  fever,  I  seemed  to  be  recovering ;  but 
the  cold  weather  brought  increasing  debility,  and  I  was  ordered 
to  Italy.  Of  course,  Clara  was  my  companion.  I  don't  know 
why  it  was,  but  even  these  genial  skies  could  do  little  for  a  mal 
ady  which  was  not  of  the  flesh ;  and  yet,  more  and  more  I  grew 
in  love  with  Italy.  I  used  to  sit  and  dream  for  hours  on  the 
banks  of  the  silvery  Arno,  trying  to  people  the  fair  land  with  its 
old-time  deities;  but,  somehow,  every  sylph  used  to  wear  your 
face.  I  wonder  if  it  was  sin  thus  to  worship  you  ?  I  could  not 
help  it,  and  I  believe  God  has  forgiven  me.  And  this  brings  me 
to  something  I  must  tell  you ;  it  took  place  last  summer.  I  had 
been  very  ill,  and  was  just  able  to  go  out  of  doors.  I  sat  alone 
(for  I  had  sent  Clara  away  from  me),  feeling  miserable  and  des 
pondent.  I  thought  of  you,  and,  0  !  Agnes,  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  my  soul  longed  and  pined  for  you.  I  knew  it  would  be  sin 
to  see  you  then,  but  I  remembered  your  promise  to  come  to  me 
at  my  dying  hour ;  and  wickedly  I  knelt  down  before  God, 
and  my  heart  uttered  a  wail,  a  cry,  an  earnest  prayer  for 
death !  I  longed  for  it,  Agnes ;  for  I  felt  that  thus  only 


336  AGNES  LEE. 

could  I  gaze  again  on  my  heart's  treasure;  and  yet,  when  I 
had  uttered  the  words,  I  was  frightened  at  their  terrible  mean 
ing,  and  I  grew  still,  and  held  my  breath.  I  am  not  supersti 
tious,  Agnes ;  I  am  a  Protestant,  and  do  not  believe  in  miracles, 
or  visions ;  but  I  know  I  heard  a  voice  then,  and  it  was  no  hu 
man  voice ;  it  said,  '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  are  weary  and 
heavy-laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest ! '  There  was  a  struggle 
in  my  soul,  and  then  once  again  I  prayed,  and  this  time  the 
words  of  my  prayer  were,  '  Thy  will  be  done ! '  And  then 
unto  my  soul  there  came  a  holy  peace  and  calm. 

"  Since  then  I  have  longed  for  you,  Agnes,  as  I  sat  under  the 
orange-trees ;  but  it  has  not  been  that  I  might  fold  you  in  the 
arms  of  earthly  love  —  0  no  !  for  I  knew  I  was  a  dying  man  ;  — 
but  that  I  might  take  your  hand  in  mine,  and  point  you  to 
that  other  land,  where  never  more  will  the  white  day  wrap  her 
robe  about  her,  and  go  mournfully  down  the  sunset  slopes,  trem 
bling  to  her  death.  You  must  meet  me  there,  Agnes,  where 
there  is  no  need  of  the  sun  by  day,  or  the  moon  by  night.  — 

"  Agnes,  it  is  weeks  since  I  wrote  the  above.  I  was  at  Genoa 
then ;  you  will  see,  by  the  post-mark,  I  am  at  Florence  now.  I 
have  a  mission  for  you,  my  Agnes  ;  come  quickly,  and  you  will 
find  me  here.  I  was  taken  very  ill  at  Genoa  ;  but  I  travelled 
here  by  easy  stages,  and  now  I  am  writing,  propped  up  by  pil 
lows,  to  summon  you  to  my  dying  bed.  Do  not  start,  Agnes,  or 
sigh,  or  weep  !  I  am  a  happy  man.  I  am  going  home,  where 
there  will  be  no  more  sickness  nor  sorrow,  —  home  to  a  friend 
whom  I  know,  a  Redeemer  whom  I  trust.  You  must  meet  me 
there,  Agnes ;  I  shall  wait  for  you,  and  you  must  come.  But  you 
will  see  me  here  first,  you  will  come  to  me  immediately  ;  for  you 


AGNES   LEE.  337 

have  vowed  to  stand  by  my  dying  bed.  My  soul  will  wait  for 
you,  —  I  shall  not  die  till  you  are  here  !  Come,  then,  quickly, 
for  I  am  in  haste  to  be  gone  ! 

"  I  said  I  had  a  mission  for  you.  I  give  Clara  to  your  care. 
She  was  an  orphan  when  I  married  her,  and  she  has  no  one  left 
to  care  for  her.  She  is  a  good,  gentle  little  thing,  but  not  a 
strong  woman,  like  you.  You  can  guide  her,  you  can  care  for 
her  ;  for  I  know  you  have  left  the  stage.  You  will  promise  to 
stay  with  her  as  long  as  she  shall  need  your  care.  She  knows 
but  little  of  our  past ;  nothing,  save  that  you  are  dear  to  me, 
and  I  have  sent  for  you.  God  in  heaven  bless  you !  Agnes, 
not  of  my  claiming,  but  of  my  loving,  come  quickly  ! 

"  FREDERICK  HUTTON." 


Two  days  more,  and  I  stepped  from  my  travelling-carriage  at 
the  door  of  a  beautiful  Italian  villa.  In  the  faint  glimpse  I  had 
as  I  hurried  up  the  steps,  it  seemed  like  an  earthly  Paradise.  An 
English  housekeeper  met  me  at  the  door. 

"You  have  been  expected,  ma'am,"  she  remarked;  "my 
master  is  just  alive !  " 

And  there,  in  that  pleasantly-furnished  room  in  the  Italian 
villa,  I  saw  Frederick  Hutton  once  more,  and  for  the  last  time. 
He  was  handsomer  than  ever,  but  his  face  wore  the  beauty  of  an 
angel.  His  large  eyes  were  unearthly  in  their  brightness,  and 
on  his  forehead  sat  a  radiance  as  of  heavenly  glory. 

His  whole  face  kindled  as  he  saw  me,  and  a  smile  of  welcome 
played  around  his  lips.  He  stretched  forth  his  hand : 

"  You  are  in  time,  Agnes,"  he  said ;  "  I  knew  you  would  be ; 
29 


338  AGNES  LEE. 

I  was  waiting  for  you.  Will  you  care  for  her  ?  "  and,  with  his 
thin  finger,  he  pointed  to  Clara,  who  was  kneeling,  in  a  stupor 
of  grief,  at  the  bed's  foot. 

"  Yes,  Frederick,"  I  answered,  with  faltering  voice  and  filling 
eyes,  "  as  long  as  she  has  need  of  me  !  " 

"  God  bless  you,  darling !  "  he  whispered,  tenderly ;  and  then  he 
closed  his  eyes,  as  if  in  prayer.  "  Agnes,"  he  said  once  more, 
"  you  will  find  in  that  little  desk  what  I  have  meant  for  you. 
You  must  look  for  it  when  I  am  gone,  and  use  it  often.  You 
will  come,  Agnes,  I  know  it.  « He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep.' 
Think  of  that,  and  be  comforted  when  I  am  lying  low.  Sit  down 
now,  Agnes,  and  take  my  hand  in  yours,  and  sing  some  old  hymn. 
Good-by,  darling ! " 

I  took  his  hand  in  mine,  and  sat  beside  him.  I  steadied  my 
nerves  and  my  voice,  choking  back  the  tears ;  and  I  sang  that 
grand  old  hymn,  "  Saviour,  when  in  dust  to  thee."  Before  I 
had  finished,  the  hand  I  held  in  mine  grew  cold,  the  dark  eyes 
closed.  Frederick  Button  was  dead  ! 

We  buried  him  there  in  sunny  Italy ;  you  would  know  his 
grave,  if  you  should  go  to  Florence.  We  placed  a  white  stone 
at  his  head,  and  on  that  stone  was  graven,  "He  giveth  his 
beloved  sleep ! " 

The  gift  he  had  left  for  me  was  the  pocket  Bible  which  had 
been  his  constant  companion.  At  first  I  prized  it  for  his 
sake ;  then  it  became  far  dearer  to  me  for  its  own,  for  it  has 
guided  my  footsteps  in  the  path  which  will  one  day  take  me 
home  to  heaven  and  him. 

I  watched  over  Clara,  for  his  sake,  until  the  throbbings  of  her 
great  grief  grew  still  j  and  then,  still  young  and  beautiful,  she 


AGNES  LEE.  339 

went  forth  to  gladden  another  heart,  another  home ;  and,  stand 
ing  now  with  her  husband  and  her  children,  I  know  not  whether 
her  lips  murmur  at  night-fall  the  name  of  the  dead. 

I  am  old  now,  but  my  life  is  calm  and  happy.  I  am  looking 
forward  to  that  day,  not  very  far  off,  when  I  shall  stand  by  Fred 
erick's  side  in  heaven,  and,  putting  my  hand  in  his,  whisper, 
"  Here  am  I,  my  beloved ;  I  have  been  thine  only,  through 
all ! " 


MY  WIFE. 

AN   IMPROMPTU. 

WHERE  the  maples  nodded  together, 

At  the  edge  of  the  pathless  wood, 
With  a  basket  of  ripe  red  berries, 

A  sweet  little  maiden  stood. 
Her  hair  was  like  shadows  of  sunset, 

Falling  soft  over  meadows  asleep, 
Or  the  earliest  break  of  the  morning 

Pouring  gold  upon  hill-side  and  steep. 

The  green  leaves  lay  light  on  her  forehead, 

As  if  wood-nymphs  were  crowning  their  queen ; 
And  the  tremulous  smile  of  the  sunshine 

Slept  warm  on  the  tresses  between  ; 
The  blue-bells  were  nodding  beside  her, 

But  her  bright  eyes  were  bluer  to  see, 
As  they  turned,  with  an  innocent  gladness, 

That  fair  summer  morning,  on  me ! 

Her  cheeks  wore  the  hue  of  ripe  peaches 

The  sunlight  so  often  hath  kissed, 
And  her  figure  was  light  as  the  fairies 

That  ride  on  the  morning's  blue  mist  ! 
But  her  voice  was  like  no  tiling,  save  Eden, 

And  the  musical  breezes  which  blow 
Over  meadows  that  sleep  in  the  sunshine, 

Where  never  falls  tempest  or  snow ! 


Mr  WIFE.  341 

And  she  said,  with  her  blue  eyes  uplifted, 

And  a  blush  on  her  berry-brown  cheek, 
"  Will  you  show  me  the  way,  sir,  to  Ashley?  '* 

And  her  voice  was  so  gentle  and  meek, 
That  I  caught  to  my  heart  the  maiden, 

And  sued  her  to  be  my  wife ; 
So  I  showed  her  the  way  to  Ashley, 

And  she  shows  me  the  way  through  life. 
29* 


GRACIE'S    SNOWDROPS. 


IT  was  a  little  bunch  of  snowdrops  which  a  child  laid  on  my 
window.  They  were  very  beautiful,  with  their  soft,  delicate 
green,  and  their  petals  white  and  pure,  and  fleecy  as  the  great 
flakes  of  snow  the  children  used  to  catch  in  their  fingers,  stand 
ing  in  Grandfather's  porch,  on  a  Thanksgiving  morning.  They 
reminded  me  of  those  old  days,  when  I,  too,  held  the  snow-flakes 
in  my  fingers,  and  watched  to  see  them  melt.  Weary  years  had 
passed  since  then,  wherein  my  feet  were  wandering  far  away 
from  the  old  homestead,  and  the  thanksgiving  on  my  lips  was 
sobbed  upward  through  tears.  I  had  seen  many  other  things 
melt  beside  snow-flakes,  and  sometimes  an  avalanche  had  fallen 
upon  my  brightest  hopes ;  but  not  for  these  things  I  wept,  holding 
between  my  fingers  the  snowdrops  which  little  Grace  had  laid 
upon  my  window.  My  gaze  was  turned  inward,  and  I  seemed  to 
see  another  Grace,  and  other  flowers,  heavy  with  the  tears  of  a 
yet  wilder  sorrow. 

Our  little  Grace  —  "  Little  Blossom,"  as  Grandmother  loves  to 
call  her  —  is  strangely  fair.  Her  loveliness  is  of  the  most  ethereal 
type  out  of  heaven.  You,  with  your  poetical  fancy,  would  com 
pare  it  to  white  clouds  of  a  summer  evening,  or  the  transient 
gleam  of  an  angel's  wing,  in  those  spring  days  when  the  sky 
seems  lovingly  bending  nearer,  and  the  very  glory  of  heaven  is 
scarcely  hidden  by  the  blue  between.  Her  rare  loveliness  does 


GEACIE'S  SNOWDROPS.  343 

not  consist  alone  in  the  pearly  whiteness  of  her  skin,  and  the 
delicate  tracery  of  her  blue  veins,  or  the  clear  azure  of  her  eye, 
and  the  pale  gold  of  her  hair.  Beyond  all  this,  there  is  beauty 
of  a  higher  order,  which  lends  to  her  every  word  and  act  an 
indescribable  charm.  It  shines  in  her  smile,  it  rings  in  her  glee 
ful  laugh,  and  makes  graceful  every  movement  of  her  flexile 
figure.  But  we  gaze  on  her  oftenest  through  tears  ;  for  even  so 
looked  and  moved  and  brightened  before  our  eyes  our  other 
Grace,  her  mother  before  her.  Grace  Vinton  had  been  the  pet 
and  darling  of  the  whole  village.  She  was  beautiful,  and  an 
heiress ;  and  yet  the  rarest  of  her  charms  was  her  entire  forget- 
fulness  of  self.  0,  how  we  all  loved  her  !  how  we  blessed  the 
fate  that  constituted  her  my  father's  ward  ! 

She  made  our  whole  lives  radiant  with  a  new  charm,  even  in 
the  days  of  her  early  childhood.  The  breath  of  the  flowers  was 
sweeter  when  her  hand  gathered  them ;  the  bird-songs  swelled 
up  with  a  clearer  melody  when  her  sweet  voice  joined  their 
chorus ;  and  our  very  prayers  grew  eloquent  with  a  deeper  faith, 
at  her  low,  silvery  "  Amen ! "  And  then,  when  she  grew  up 
to  womanhood,  every  day  getting  fairer  and  sweeter,  fuller  of 
music  and  poetry,  and  all  things  good  and  glorious,  what  wonder 
we  looked  on  her  with  almost  superstitious  awe,  and  whispered 
to  each  other  that  God  had  sent  his  angel  to  dwell  among  us  ? 
The  house  grew  strangely  dark  and  dull  when  she  left  us  to 
spend  a  few  months  in  the  great  city.  Brother  Frank  declared 
himself  a  victim  to  "  dog-days "  long  after  the  autumn  wind 
had  swept  the  last  sere  leaf  from  the  drooping  willow.  We 
heard  of  her  very  often ;  —  how  noble  and  gifted  ones  had 
knelt  before  her  in  homage ;  how  her  angel  nature  seemed  to 


344  GBACIE'S  SNOWDROPS. 

cast  a  spell  of  love  and  purity  even  over  the  sickly  haunts  of 
fashion ;  and  brother  Frank  listened  with  a  frown  on  his  brow, 
and  declared  the  dog-days  had  lasted,  this  year,  into  January. 

But  she  came  back  to  us,  after  a  time,  looking  lovelier  and 
more  radiant  than  ever,  —  all  our  own  Grace  still !  And  then,  in 
the  simple  country  church,  Grace  became  in  very  truth  my  sister, 
my  brother  Frank's  wife.  Surely  never  was  there  a  fairer  bride. 
There  were  no  pearls  or  diamonds  in  her  hair,  no  costly  Point 
D'Alen^on  lace  floating  over  her  white  neck  and  graceful  arms ; 
but  I  don't  think  the  veriest  fashion-monger  in  the  world  would 
have  thought  they  could  improve  Gracie.  She  looked  so  fair,  so 
ethereal,  in  her  simple  white  muslin,  with  her  rich  tresses 
looped  up  with  a  wreath  of  snowdrops !  Never  did  a  young  hus 
band's  eyes  turn  on  his  loved  one  with  more  of  idolizing  tender 
ness,  and  never  was  there  a  warmer  welcome  than  that  with 
which  our  parents  held  her  to  their  hearts,  and  called  her  their 
child,  their  life's  best  blessing. 

A  year  had  passed,  and  the  room  where  Grace  lay  sleeping 
was  dark  and  very  still.  She  opened  her  eyes,  at  length,  with  a 
shudder,  and  cried  out,  "  Nellie,  0  Nellie !  did  you  say  it  ? 
Must  I  die  ?  Must  I  leave  the  husband  who  has  made  my  life 
so  happy,  the  baby  that  has  only  one  short  week  been  pil 
lowed  on  my  bosom,  and  go,  no  one  knows  or  can  tell  where  ? 
Must  I,  Nellie  ?  " 

My  answer  was  a  burst  of  tears,  and  then  once  more  Gracie 
murmured,  "  0,  must  I  ?  Why  did  n't  any  one  tell  me,  before, 
that  I  had  got  to  die  ?  Why  was  I  taught  everything  but  this  ? 
0,  Nellie,  Nellie  !  it  is  very  bitter  !  "  And  then  she  turned  her 
face  toward  the  wall,  and  went  down  alone  into  that  dark  valley, 


GRACTG'S  SNOWDROPS.  345 

strait  and  narrow,  where  no  two  can  walk  together.  Spasms  of 
mental  agony  passed  over  her  pure  face ;  memories  of  unre- 
pented  sins  came  up  like  ghosts  before  her,  who,  we  thought, 
had  committed  no  sin ;  and  in  that  hour  spirit-hands  held  to  her 
lips  a  cup  filled  to  the  brim  with  those  waters  of  Marah  which 
men  call  Repentance,  that  bitter  portion  which  every  mortal  one 
day  must  drink.  But  the  struggle  passed  over,  and  up  to  her 
eyes  there  drifted  a  peace  which  comes  to  those  only  whose  feet 
tread  the  borders  of  the  land  of  promise. 

We  placed  snowdrops  in  her  coffin,  and  loving,  almost  break 
ing  hearts  moistened  them  with  tears ;  and  one  heart,  whereon 
her  head  had  rested,  throbbed  with  a  sorrow  too  wild  for  utter 
ance,  too  mighty  for  tears  ! 

We  named  her  baby  Grace,  and  she  lives  and  brightens  before 
our  eyes,  as  like  to  the  Grace  of  our  earliest  love  as  the  lily 
nodding  fresh  and  fragrant  on  the  stalk  to  the  last  year's  blos 
som  mouldering  beneath.  But,  ah !  the  eyes  that  gaze  on  her  are 
oft-times  dim  with  tears,  as  my  heart  goes  sorrowfully  backward 
through  the  spectre-haunted  fields  of  memory,  whither  Gracie's 
snow-drops  have  carried  me  this  morning. 


BEHOLD,  I  MISS  THEE,  LOVE 


I  MISS  thine  arms,  beloved  ! 
Thy  breast  whereon  my  head  was  wont  to  lie, 
While  the  pale  moon  clomb  up  into  the  sky, 

And  winds  like  vagrants  roved. 

I  miss  thy  calm,  deep  eyes, 
That,  smiling  all  their  Peace  into  my  soul, 
Taught  my  wild  yearnings  where  to  find  their  goal, 

And  made  earth  Paradise  ! 

I  miss  thine  earnest  praise  ! 
Dost  thou  remember,  resting  on  thy  heart, 
How -some  low  gush  of  trembling  song  would  start 

Some  dream  of  other  days  ; 

And  I  the  silence  broke, 

Whilst  thou,  my  heaven,  with  thy  calmest  eyes, 
Bent  o'er  me,  as  in  summer  bend  the  skies, 

Blessing  the  words  I  spoke  ? 

Or  how  for  hours  I  sat, 
And  whispered  legends,  told  alone  to  thee, 
Of  fairy  land,  so  far  beyond  the  sea, 

And  tricksy  pomps  thereat  ? 

Till  life  a  glory  seemed, 

And  we,  like  mortals  whom  some  god  had  blest, 
Immortal  grew,  and  tranced  in  golden  rest, 

As  Grecian  poets  dreamed. 


BEHOLD,    I   MISS   THEE,    LOVE.  347 

Be  satisfied  !    To  thee 

My  soul  no  veil  has  worn.     It  has  been  thine, 
And  thou  hast  lingered  o'er  each  burning  line, 

Till  naught  was  mystery  ; 

And  in  each  writing  traced 
By  fate,  or  passion-spell  upon  my  heart, 
So  long  thy  name  has  borne  a  blessed  part, 

It  cannot  be  erased. 

Be  satisfied  !    The  form 
Though  other  claim,  or  call  the  lips  his  own, 
He  cannot  win  to  them  the  burning  tone 

Thy  love  made  warm  ! 

I  may  not  be  thy  bride, 

But,  0,  by  all  the  past,  whose  glory  hath  been  thine, 
By  all  the  paths  thy  soul  hath  trod  with  mine, 

Those  souls  shall  be  affied  ! 


THE    SECRET    MARRIAGE. 

IT  was  a  magnificent  apartment  in  an  old  English  baronial 
hall.  A  strong  light  fell  from  the  lofty  window  over  a  gentle 
man  and  a  lady,  the  only  occupants  of  the  room. 

The  girl  was  very  young,  —  scarcely  had  her  feet  wandered 
beyond  the  enchanted  boundary  of  girlhood  ;  and  yet  there  was 
a  kind  of  tropical  ripeness  in  her  gorgeous  beauty. 

Her  figure  was  tall,  stately  and  fully  developed,  —  exquisite 
in  its  proportions ;  her  features  were  purely  classical  in  their 
outline,  and  from  the  small  and  graceful  head  fell,  nearly  to 
her  waist,  the  shining  ringlets  of  her  jet-black  hair.  But  the 
chief  glory  of  that  matchless  face  was  the  large  black  eyes,  with 
their  long  fringes,  in  one  instant  so  dusky  and  full  of  shadows, 
and  the  next  so  melting,  so  suffused  with  grief  or  tenderness, 
so  full  of  dreams. 

She  was,  indeed,  a  glorious  creature,  and  her  loveliness  was 
unconsciously  displayed  to  the  best  advantage  by  her  sim 
ple  deep-mourning  dress.  Her  corsage  was  fitted  smooth  and 
close  over  her  bosom,  and  finished  at  the  throat  by  a  simple 
collar  of  plain  white  muslin.  She  wore  no  ornament,  save  a 
heavy  golden  cross,  fastened  around  her  neck  by  a  black  cord, 
and  hanging  midway  on  her  bosom.  Her  sleeves  were  tight  at 
the  shoulder,  while  at  the  wrist  their  folds  fell  heavily  about  the 
small,  dimpled  hand. 


THE    SECRET   MARRIAGE.  349 

Scarcely  could  a  painter's  fancy  have  imagined  a  fairer  being 
than  was  Margaret  Hereford,  as  she  sat  there,  in  the  high- 
backed,  crimson  velvet  chair,  with  the  full  light  falling  over  her 
head.  She  was  an  orphan,  and  alone  on  earth. 

Not  a  drop  of  her  kindred  blood  flowed  in  the  veins  of  any 
human  being.  Her  father  had  died  scarcely  six  months  before, 
and  left  her  desolate ;  and  she,  the  delicately-nurtured  child  of 
affluence,  had  gone  forth  to  win  her  bread  by  the  toil  of  a  gov 
erness  among  strangers. 

Hers  was  one  of  those  strong  natures,  very  powerful  either  for 
good  or  evil.  So  far,  by  the  care  of  her  gentle  mother  in  early 
infancy,  and  in  later  years  of  a  father,  the  rule  of  whose  life  had 
been,  "  Thou,  God,  seest  me  !  "  her  faith  and  her  life  had  been 
kept  pure,  and  the  great  strength  of  her  soul  had  been  turned 
heavenward. 

The  gentleman  kneeling  beside  her  was  almost  equally  hand 
some,  in  another  style  of  beauty.  He  was  tall,  slight,  and  very 
graceful,  with  large  blue  eyes,  laughing  and  bright.  Upon 
his  brow  lay  heavy  curls  of  rich  brown  hair,  brushed  lightly 
back.  His  mouth  was  beautiful,  but  there  was  about  it  a 
lurking  expression  which  a  physiognomist  would  have  inter 
preted  as  an  evidence  of  a  certain  kind  of  voluptuous  self-wor 
ship,  and  he  would  have  been  right.  Percy  Kuthven  had,  indeed, 
shrined  himself  as  the  idol  in  the  temple  of  his  heart,  and  all 
other  things  were  second  to  this  handsome,  haughty  self;  yes, 
all,  even  the  beautiful  Margaret  Hereford,  whose  avowed  lover 
he  had  for  some  time  been,  and  whom  he  did  indeed  love  beyond 
all  things  mortal,  except  himself. 

Percy   Ruthven   was   the   only   son   of    a   baronet   recently 
30 


350  THE   SECRET   MARK1AGE. 

deceased ;  with  a  slender  fortune,  and  strong  hopes,  based  upon 
the  good  will  of  a  wealthy,  childless  old  uncle,  who  (the  gossips 
said)  was  at  the  point  of  death. 

A  frequent  visitor  at  Clifton  Hall,  he  had  often  met  the  beau 
tiful  governess,  before  he  even  knew  her  name.  At  first  he  used 
to  look  with  a  wonder  that  was  half  compassion  on  the  pale 
girl,  in  her  deep  mourning  robes,  who  was  sent  for,  even 
ings,  to  play  waltzes  and  quadrilles  for  the  young  people  to 
dance.  She  would  come  into  the  drawing-room  so  shy,  so  still ; 
her  sad,  irresistibly  fascinating  face,  and  her  deep  mourning 
robes,  were  such  a  contrast  to  the  glare  and  glitter  around 
her;  then,  when  her  task  was  performed,  she  would  steal  so 
quietly  from  the  room,  noticing  no  one,  speaking  to  no  one,  yet 
moving  as  if  she  were  the  superior,  with  her  regal  step  and  her 
scornful  eye. 

From  noticing  her  coming  with  surprise,  he  grew  to  watch  for 
it,  to  be  silent  and  dissatisfied  when  she  did  not  appear,  and  at 
last  to  use  his  privilege  as  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family,  and 
steal  away  sometimes  to  the  nursery,  under  the  pretence  of  a 
visit  to  her  ward,  the  little  Angelique. 

The  first  time  he  went  he  found  Miss  Hereford  (he  had  learned 
her  name  from  the  servants)  sitting  by  the  window,  in  the  moon 
light,  with  the  little  Angelique  in  her  arms.  A  lamp  was  burn 
ing  on  the  side-table  in  another  portion  of  the  apartment ;  but 
the  child,  with  her  golden  curls,  was  sitting  in  the  full  glory  of 
the  moonlight,  and  about  her  were  folded  the  arms  of  her  gov 
erness,  scarcely  less  a  child  than  herself. 

The  little  one  was  very  beautiful.  Well  had  she  been  called 
Angelique,  for  her  fair  face  reminded  you  of  nothing  but  an 


THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE.  351 

infant  angel.  You  might  have  thought  some  fairy  had  changed 
her  on  a  midsummer  night. 

There  could  hardly  have  been  imagined  a  fairer  picture.  The 
governess  was  the  shadow,  with  her  deep-mourning  dress,  her 
long  ringlets  of  black  hair,  and  her  dark  and  splendid  beauty  ; 
and  the  fair,  golden-haired  child,  with  her  clear,  English  com 
plexion,  and  her  large,  spiritual  blue  eyes,  was  the  brilliant 
light. 

For  a  moment  Percy  Ruthven  stood,  and,  unseen,  gazed  upon 
the  two,  in  silent  admiration. 

"  Ah,  Angelique,  lily-bud  !  "  whispered  the  governess,  "  thank 
God  you  were  given  me,  —  the  one  green  spot  in  my  summerless 
life." 

The  little  one  lay  there  quietly,  winding  those  long  black 
curls  around  her  white,  dimpled  fingers ;  then  she  asked,  earnestly, 

"  Do  the  angels  have  such  curls  ?  Do  the  angels  look  like 
you,  Maggie  ?  'Cause,  if  they  do,  I  shall  love  to  go  to  heaven. 
Say,  Maggie,  do  you  think  they  look  like  you  ?  " 

"  No,  darling,  I  don't  suppose  angels  have  black  hair  and  dark 
eyes,  like  mine.  You  look  much  more  like  an  angel,  my  pet ; 
you  know  they  call  you  Angelique." 

"  Angels,  both  of  you,"  exclaimed  a  deep  voice  close  beside 
them.  "  I,  for  one,  can  bear  witness,  Miss  Hereford,  that  I  have 
seen  one  with  black  hair.  Nay,  Angie,  pet  child,  I  came  to  see 
you ;  can't  you  introduce  me  to  your  friend  ?  I  see  she  is 
looking  scorn  on  me  for  speaking  to  her  without  an  introduc 
tion." 

"  0,  yes,"  said  the  sweet  child,  simply.  "  Maggie,  this  is 
Percy  Ruthven.  I  like  him  better  than  any  one  in  the  world, 


352  THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE. 

except  you ;   and  he  loves  me,  and  pretty  soon  he  '11  love  you 
too." 

"Ha,    ha!      Bravo,    Angelique, — a    shrewd    prophecy! 
laughed  Percy  Ruthven;  "but,  Miss  Hereford,  since  I  have  come 
and  so  well  recommended,  too,  you  will  surely  let  me  stay  ?  " 

Miss  Hereford  laughingly  gave  her  consent,  and,  thanks  to  th< 
young  gentleman's  lively  conversation,  she  passed  a  far  pleasantei 
evening  than  ever  before  since  she  entered  her  new  abode.  This 
was  succeeded  by  many  other  pleasant  evenings;  for  Percy 
Ruthven  was  not,  as  yet,  sufficiently  rich  or  distinguished  to  have 
his  absence  from  the  drawing-room  particularly  remarked. 

For  some  time  previous  to  the  afternoon  on  which  our  story 
opens,  he  had  been  the  affianced  lover  of  the  beautiful  govern 
ess.  Had  you  known  them  both,  you  would  have  wondered 
how  Margaret  Hereford,  with  her  pride,  her  strength  of  pur 
pose,  and  her  lofty  soul,  could  have  loved  one  so  far  her  inferior 
in  all  that  constitutes  true  greatness. 

But  he  was  handsome,  fascinating,  generous ;  and  Margaret, 
looking  through  this  glass  of  love,  saw  not  that  his  good  impulses 
were  nothing  more  than  impulses,  that  his  principles  were  want 
ing  in  strength  and  steadiness,  and  even  his  learning  was  super 
ficial.  She  only  felt  that  he,  in  worldly  station  so  far  above  her, 
had  yet  given  to  the  poor  governess  the  rich  treasure  of  his  love, 
to  be  the  one  star  of  her  life. 

Many  times,  when  he  was  absent,  rising  up  from  her  bed  in 
the  solemn  night,  with  her  face  upturned  to  the  stars,  she  prayed 
God  to  bless  him,  and  crown  him  with  glory  and  honor. 

There  was  a  longing  in  her  heart  to  pour  out  its  worship  and 


THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE.  353 

reverence.  Percy  loved  her,  and  her  imagination  invested  him 
with  the  perfections  of  an  archangel. 

Hers  was  a  passion,  a  worship,  stronger  than  life ;  ay,  so 
strong  that  the  waves  of  the  sea  of  death  could  not  choke  it. 
And  yet,  so  perfect  was  the  womanly  dignity,  the  innate  royalty, 
of  the  proud  spirit,  that  she  never  forgot  her  own  position. 

Not  for  her  was  the  outward  worship  of  clasped  hands  and 
bended  knees;  in  her  heart  she  bowed  before  him,  but  outwardly 
her  betrothed  had  no  power  to  quicken  a  single  footstep,  to  cause 
the  neglect  of  a  single  duty. 

Therefore  it  was  that  she  sat  proud  and  composed,  this 
pleasant  summer  afternoon,  in  that  high-backed  arm-chair,  in 
the  drawing-room  of  Clifton  Hall. 

Her  lover,  as  we  have  said,  knelt  beside  her,  and  his  eyes  were 
upturned  to  her  face. 

"  But,  Margaret,  my  own  Margaret,"  he  was  pleading,  "  is  not 
a  marriage  before  only  the  priest  and  the  witnesses  just  as  sacred 
as  if  all  the  world  beheld  it  ? 

"  Listen,  Maggie, — you  are  mine ;  you  have  given  yourself  to 
me,  to  be  cherished  and  protected.  Your  engagement  closes  here 
to-morrow,  and  you  shall  not,  my  Maggie,  commence  another. 
I  will  not  have  you  endure  this  slavery  any  longer.  You  must 
be  my  wife  to-night. 

"  Now,  Maggie,  you  shall  decide.  Shall  it  be  openly,  before 
all  the  Cliftons,  in  the  drawing-room  of  Clifton  Hall,  with  many 
an  eye  to  gaze  upon  my  fair  bride's  loveliness,  though  she  has 
said  she  cared  nothing  for  other  eyes  than  mine  ?  Shall  it  be 
here,  Maggie,  and  then  shall  I  go  forth,  disinherited  by  my 
uncle,  self-doomed  to  poverty  forever  ?  or,  will  you  meet  me  out- 
30* 


354  THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE. 

side  the  house,  at  half  an  hour  before  midnight,  and  go  with  me 
to  the  chapel,  where  you  shall  become  my  wife  before  Heaven, 
with  the  pastor's  blessing,  and  to-morrow,  when  you  leave  Clif 
ton  Hall,  go  to  the  station,  a  few  miles  distant,  where  your  hus 
band  will  meet  you,  and  bear  you  to  a  sunny  southern  home, 
beyond  the  blue  sea,  trusting  to  a  future  day,  when  the  world 
shall  call  you  by  my  name  ? 

"  If  you  had  friends,  Maggie,  whom  such  a  course  might  pain, 
I  would  not  ask  it ;  but  you  are  all  alone,  and  you  have  said  my 
love  was  all  you  sought. 

"  But,  darling,  I  do  not  dictate ;  choose  as  you  will.  If  I 
desire  riches,  it  is  for  your  sake  more  than  mine ;  but,  if  you 
choose  to  give  them  up,  if  you  choose  the  public  marriage,  be  it 
so  ;  for  I  would  give  life  itself,  rather  than  you  should  ever  suffer," 
and  the  speaker  paused,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  his  throbbing 
heart. 

For  a  moment  the  lady  hesitated ;  then,  veiling  her  lustrous 
eyes  with  her  silky  lashes,  she  said,  timidly, 

"  We  will  have  the  secret  marriage,  Percy.  I  care  not  for 
riches  for  myself,  but  I  cannot  cause  you  pain.  It  is  true  I 
have  no  friends  but  you,  and  while  my  heart  is  right  I  will 
neither  court  nor  fear  the  world.  It  hurts  my  pride,  this  con 
cealment,  for  it  is  foreign  to  my  nature;  but  I  love  you  so 
fondly,  Percy,  that,  for  your  sake,  I  will  strive  to  forget  it.  Yes, 
I  will  meet  you  to-night,  outside  the  hall,  at  half  an  hour  before 
midnight.  God  grant,  beloved,  that  neither  of  us  may  ever  have 
cause  to  regret  it !  " 

"  We  shall  not.     God  in  heaven  bless  you,  my  own  dearest, 


THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE.  355 

for  you  have  made  me  very  happy  ! "  and,  rising,  the  young  man 
drew  her  to  his  heart. 

"  0,  my  Margaret,"  he  said,  softly,  "  can  the  love  of  a  lifetime 
ever  reward  you  for  all  this  great  goodness  to  one  so  unworthy  ? 
May  God  be  merciful  unto  me  only  in  proportion  as  I  make  you 
happy !  " 

As  he  spoke  thus,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  young  girl 
passed  her  arm  around  her  lover's  neck,  and  pressed  his  hand  to 
her  lips.  "  I  am  happy  now,  my  beloved ! "  she  whispered.  "  It 
is  I  who  must  reward  you,  by  my  untiring  devotion,  for  the 
riches  of  your  great  love,  the  wealth  of  my  life." 

"  I  must  leave  you  now,  darling,"  said  the  young  man,  gayly ; 
"  leave  you  to  prepare  for  that  other,  happier  hour,  which  shall 
see  you  my  bride,  as  well  as  my  idol !  "  and,  with  a  kiss,  he  de 
parted. 

"0,  take  away  your  snowdrops  pale,  —  I  cannot  bear  the  sight ! 
They  were  woven  in  our  darling's  hair  upon  her  bridal  night ; 
And  fairer  seemed  the  snowy  buds  than  India's  rarest  pearls, 
And  fairer  than  them  both  the  brow  that  beamed  beneath  her 

curls ; 

That  lily  brow,  those  tresses  dark,  —  0,  ne'er  so  fair  a  bride 
Hath  trembled  at  the  altar  place,  her  chosen  one  beside ; 
And  never  heart  more  fond  and  pure  a  wedding  gift  was  brought, 
Than  Ada's,  in  its  sinlessness,  its  sweet  and  earnest  thought." 

At  half-past  eleven,  Margaret  rose  from  her  knees,  and,  fold 
ing  about  her  a  heavy  crimson  shawl,  she  left  her  room.  Hur 
riedly  she  stole  into  the  adjoining  chamber,  and,  bending  over  a 
tiny  crib,  pressed  her  lips  to  the  brow  of  the  little  Angelique, 


356  THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE. 

and  murmured  a  blessing  over  her.  The  crushed  tears  were 
heavy  on  Margaret's  drooping  lashes ;  but  she  faltered  not  in  her 
purpose,  and,  in  a  moment  more,  she  was  clasped  to  Percy  Ruth- 
ven's  heart. 

"  God  bless  you,  dearest !  "  he  exclaimed;  "  I  knew  you  would 
not  fail  me ;  "  and  then,  pulling  her  shawl  more  closely  around 
her,  he  hurried  her  toward  the  chapel. 

As  they  passed  in,  and  Margaret  stood  there  in  the  full  glare 
of  the  wax  tapers,  Percy  started  back  in  astonishment,  for  never 
had  he  seen  a  human  being  one  half  so  beautiful. 

She  stood  there,  her  strange  eyes  lit  as  if  with  the  fires  of  in 
spiration,  her  black  curls  put  back  from  her  forehead  with  a 
band  of  -snowdrops,  her  robe  of  thin,  embroidered  muslin  float 
ing  around  her  like  folds  cut  out  of  a  snow-cloud,  and 
the  crimson  shawl  streaming  backward  from  her  polished 
shoulders. 

Her  cheek  burned  with  a  deep,  steady  crimson,  the  glow  of 
her  unwonted  excitement ;  and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  beneath 
the  folds  of  her  muslin  robe. 

It  was  dark  as  night  at  the  further  extremity  of  the  chapel ; 
only  a  brilliant  light  streamed  over  the  priest  in  his  white  robes, 
and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  kneeling  before  the  altar ;  and,  just 
as  the  nuptial  benediction  was  pronounced,  twelve  chimes  rung 
out,  loud  and  clear,  from  the  chapel  bell.  They  rose  from  their 
knees  as  the  last  one  struck,  and  stood  there  in  the  solemn  mid 
night,  wedded ! 

At  that  moment,  just  as  Percy  Ruthven  was  about  to  clasp 
his  fair  bride  to  his  heart,  a  bird  which  had  flown  in,  apparently, 


THE    SECRET    MARRIAGE. 


THE   SECRET   MARBIAGE.  357 

through  a  broken  window-pane,  fluttered  feebly  a  moment  above 
the  lights,  and  then  fell  down  lifeless  at  the  bride's  feet. 

"  It  is  a  young  raven,"  said  Percy,  as  he  raised  it,  —  "  appar 
ently  half  starved,"  —  and  he  threw  it  down  again,  carelessly. 

"  0,  Percy,  dearest,  I  am  sick  with  terror  !  The  omen,  the 
omen  !  "  and  the  bride  shuddered,  and  clung  tremblingly  to  the 
arm  of  her  new-made  husband. 

"  What,  you  frightened !  you,  my  strong,  brave  Margaret !  " 
and  Percy  passed  his  arm  about  her  waist.  "  Why,  it  is  noth 
ing,  darling ;  there  is  no  omen.  I  suppose  the  poor  bird  got  in 
here  by  mistake,  some  time  ago ;  and,  as  the  chapel  is  seldom 
used,  he  could  not  find  his  way  out,  and  he  has  starved  to  death. 

"  Do  not  tremble,  my  Margaret,  on  this  golden  morn  of  our 
existence  !  My  life,  my  blessing,  look  at  me  once  with  a  wife- 
like  smile,  or  tell  me,  my  wife,  do  you  regret  that  you  are 
mine  ? " 

"  Regret  it,  Percy,  my  soul's  idol,  never  !  I  am  so  glad,  so 
happy !  I  was  only  foolish,  that  is  all ;  "  and,  trembling  with  joy 
now,  as  she  had  before  done  with  fear,  she  nestled  trustingly  in 
his  arms,  and  they  left  the  chapel. 

At  the  door  of  Clifton  Hall  they  parted ;  and  thus  ended 
that  strange  marriage,  in  the  midnight  and  the  solemn  silence. 

A  few  days  later  saw  the  newly-wedded  lovers  domesticated 
in  a  delightful  villa,  in  the  south  of  France. 


"  Another  night ;  0,  if  her  brow  out-paled  the  wreath  before, 
Sure,  nothing  earthly  could  have  matched  the  white  her  cheek  then 
wore  ! 


358  THE   SECRET   MARiUAUE. 

So  pallid  that  the  tracery  of  the  blue,  delicate  vein 
Upon  the  temple  passed  away,  and  all  its  violet  stain,  — 
Gone  was  all  light  and  radiance  ;  with  moveless  lip  and  limb, 
She  listened  to  the  dreadful  words  they  whispered  her  of  him  ; 
The  husband  of  her  bride-hood  false  !  her  frightened  soul  seemed 

flown, 
And  the  pale  snowdrops  wreathed  a  brow  above  a  heart  of  stone  !  " 

Seven  years  had  passed,  of  mingled  light  and  shade,  —  seven 
years  1 

The  first  three  had  flown  rapidly  in  that  sunny  villa  in  the 
south  of  France. 

Percy  had  been  devotion  itself  to  his  fair  young  wife,  and  she 
in  return  worshipped  him.  All  her  pride  seemed  swallowed  up 
in  adoration.  His  will  was  her  law,  and  his  smiles  her  joy  and 
hope.  Only  one  trouble  had  visited  them,  and  that  was  when 
the  roses  of  Provence  had  bloomed  on  their  little  Percy's  grave, 
ere  he  had  been  three  months  strayed  away  from  Eden. 

But,  at  the  end  of  the  third  year,  they  were  recalled  to  Eng 
land  by  the  sudden  death  of  Percy's  uncle,  and  the  acquisition 
of  the  fortune  the  young  husband  had  anticipated.  But  they 
were  so  happy  in  each  other,  that  Margaret  had  joyfully  yielded 
to  the  suggestion  that  their  marriage  should  not  yet  be  made 
public,  as  such  a  course  would  inevitably  bring  upon  them  a 
round  of  visiting  and  fashionable  annoyances. 

But  life  in  England  had  hardly  been  so  deeply  blessed  to 
Margaret  as  was  life  in  France.  True,  Percy  was  as  tender,  as 
reverent,  as  affectionate,  as  ever.  True,  she  worshipped  him 
with  the  same  soul-engrossing  affection;  but  he  now  spent 


THE   SECRET   MABKIAGE.  359 

a  great  part  of  his  time  away  from  home,  alleging  that  his  in 
crease  of  fortune  rendered  his  personal  supervision  of  his  estates 
absolutely  necessary,  and  also  that  he  was  obliged  to  mingle  in 
society  to  some  extent,  in  order  to  avoid  suspicion  concerning  his 
family  ties,  and  secure  to  them  undisturbed  those  blessed  hours 
of  peace  and  love  together,  which  were  their  deepest  joy. 

Margaret  also  knew  that  her  husband  had  embarked  a  large 
portion  of  his  fortune  in  speculations,  of  whose  nature  and  extent 
she  was  not  informed.  And  yet,  of  late,  she  had  been  very 
happy. 

Another  babe  slept  in  her  arms.  The  angel  visitant  was  a 
girl,  this  time,  with  her  father's  large  blue  eyes  and  sunny  curls ; 
and  for  this  was  Aymee  all  the  dearer. 

Percy,  too,  seemed  to  share  all  her  enthusiastic  fondness  for 
the  child.  He  used  to  come  home  worn  and  weary,  and  then, 
sitting  at  his  wife's  feet,  with  the  little  one  in  his  arms,  declare 
that  God  had  blessed  him  on  earth  with  all  the  blessedness  of 
heaven,  and  that  one  could  afford  to  be  patient  under  slight  an 
noyances,  so  that  one  could  turn  again  always  to  the  peace  and 
repose  of  such  a  home. 

And  Margaret's  proud  spirit  had  grown  meek  and  calm.  Her 
resistless  energy  and  love  of  excitement  were  hushed  to  sleep,  and 
she  dreamed  not  of  a  future  fairer  than  the  present,  as  she 
watched  for  her  husband's  footsteps,  or  hung  over  the  crib  of  her 
babe. 

I  said  seven  years  had  passed ;  yes,  and  this  was  the  very 
anniversary  of  their  marriage. 

Their  home  was  a  beautiful  one  in  the  suburbs  of  London,  —  a 
pleasant  little  English  cottage,  with  a  perfect  Eden  of  beauty  sur- 


360  THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE. 

rounding  it.  There  were  fountains  which  tinkled  musically  on 
the  drowsy  air,  little  miniature  ponds,  and  clumps  of  rare  and 
beautiful  trees. 

Inside,  the  house  was  adorned  with  all  that  taste  could  devise 
and  art  could  furnish;  rare  mosaics,  exquisite  paintings,  and 
little  gems  of  sculpture ;  jewelled  vases,  and  ornaments  of  China 
and  porcelain,  or  grotesquely  carved  out  of  silver. 

But,  in  all  those  gorgeous,  tasteful  rooms,  there  was  nothing 
half  so  fair  as  the  young  mother  and  her  sleeping  babe.  The 
wife  was  robed  in  a  dress  of  snowy  muslin,  delicately  embroi 
dered;  for  she  remembered  that  seven  years  ago,  that  very 
night,  had  her  bridal  vow  been  spoken,  and  she  had  robed  her 
self  as  if  for  a  second  bridal.  Once  more  a  wreath  of  the 
drooping  snowdrops  was  knotted  in  her  curls,  and  once  more 
her  snowy  shoulders  and  exquisitely-moulded  throat  rose  like 
sculptured  marble  above  the  soft  and  fleece-like  robe. 

She  was,  if  possible,  even  more  beautiful  than  ever.  A  hap 
piness  more  perfect  than  oftentimes  falls  to  the  lot  of  mortals  had 
brought  smiles  of  joy  to  her  eyes,  and  a  bright  flush  to  her  deli 
cately-rounded  cheek.  She  sat  there  now  at  a  western  window, 
with  the  glory  of  the  sunset  falling  at  once  over  her  and  the 
cherub  little  one  sleeping  so  quietly  upon  her  breast. 


At  this  very  hour,  in  another  part  of  the  city,  another  scene 
was  passing  before  the  eyes  of  the  angels..  In  a  large  and  stately 
garden,  lying  adjacent  to  a  palace,  rising  on  one  side  -as 
if  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  waves  that  surrounded  it,  on  the 


THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE.  361 

other  fronting  broad  lands,  and  pleasant  paths  straying 
among  fountains,  walked  a  lady  almost  as  fair  as  the  sweet  wife 
Margaret. 

The  Lady  Alice  Sinclair's  loveliness  was  of  a  very  different 
style.  Her  figure  was  small  and  slight  as  a  fairy-child,  or  a 
snow-figure;  her  features  were  delicate;  her  large  eyes  re 
minded  you  of  the  blue  sky  and  the  calm  home  of  the  angels, 
while  over  her  fair  shoulders  floated  sunny  curls,  like  tangled 
masses  of  fine-spun  golden  threads.  Her  dress  was  of  a 
sky-blue  silk,  falling  about  her  in  graceful  folds ;  and  she  wore 
no  ornaments  save  a  cross  of  diamonds  attached  to  a  necklace 
of  pearls.  The  little  graceful  fairy  could  not  have  smiled 
beneath  the  sunshine  of  more  than  sixteen  summers,  and  all  that 
time  the  paths  where  her  tiny  feet  must  walk  had  been  angel- 
guarded  and  strewn  with  flowers. 

By  her  side  walked  a  man,  to  whose  perfection  of  form,  and 
mien,  and  features,  at  least  thirty  years  had  brought  the  lustre 
of  their  maturity.  He  was  tall,  finely  formed,  and  strikingly 
handsome,  and  his  voice  was  musical  as  the  harmonies  of  a  skil 
fully-played  instrument. 

"  Alice,  sweet,  angel  Alice!  "  he  whispered,  tenderly,  "  in  threo 
days  you  will  be  my  bride,  all  my  own.  What  a  joy,  Alice, 
to  make  your  life  a  very  dream  of  sunshine  !  Will  you  be  happy, 
my  beautiful  one  ?  " 

"Yes,  dearest,  I  could  not  be  otherwise  than  happy  with 
you  by  my  side ;  but,  tell  me,  Percy,  how  came  you,  so  much 
older  and  wiser  than  I  am,  to  love  a  silly  little  thing  like 
me?" 

"  Rather  let  me  ask,  beloved,  how  could  you,  so  young,  so 
31 


362  THE   SECRET    MARRIAGE. 

beautiful,  and  highly-born,  have  learned  to  love  me,  so  much 
older,  with  my  temper  soured,  and  my  brow  wrinkled  by  the 
cares  of  years,  and  poor,  too,  as  you  knew  I  was,  Alice  ?  Tell 
me,  darling." 

O,  what  a  beaming  face  was  turned  up  to  his  in  reply,  albeit 
the  tears  did  tremble  on  the  long  lashes ;  and  how  musical  the 
sweet  voice,  which  whispered, 

"  Your  love  gives  me  life,  my  adored,  my  noble  one !  Ask 
why  the  flowers  love  the  sun  which  shines  on  them,  the  rain 
which  waters  them,  why  the  infant  loves  the  mother  who  cher 
ished  it  in  her  bosom,  and  then  know  that  you  are  my  life's  sun 
and  music,  that  my  heart's  hopes  sprang  into  being  at  your 
touch,  and  behold  why  I  love  you !  " 

The  proud  man  bent  over  her,  and  caught  her  to  his  bosom,  as 
he  said,  solemnly, 

"  May  God  in  heaven  visit  me  with  his  anger,  if  aught  but 
death  part  thee  and  me,  0,  my  beloved !  " 


An  hour  later,  and  the  same  proud  man  was  entering  the 
fairy-like  cottage  of  Margaret;  for  the  impetuous  wooer  of 
the  Lady  Alice  Sinclair  was  Percy  Ruthven,  the  wedded  husband 
of  Margaret  Hereford.  The  young  wife  —  for  even  yet  Marga 
ret  was  scarcely  twenty-five  —  heard  the  welcome  sound  of 
his  approaching  footsteps,  and,  hastily  laying  her  babe  in  its 
little  crib,  she  darted  forward  to  meet  him. 

Percy  had  been  charmed,  touched,  by  the  beauty  and  inno 
cence  of  the  Lady  Alice  Sinclair ;  he  had  been  flattered  by  her 


THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE.  363 

love,  but  never,  for  one  moment,  had  his  heart  been  untrue  to 
Margaret.  His  love,  such  love  as  he  was  capable  of  giving, 
was  all  hers.  His  soul  was  penetrated  by  her  beauty,  for  he 
had  never  seen  another  face  so  fair,  and  it  was  a  style  vastly 
more  to  his  taste  than  that  of  the  Lady  Alice  Sinclair. 

He  met  her  with  a  fond  embrace,  and,  taking  her  in  his  arms, 
he  sat  down  with  her  at  the  window.  He  brushed  back  the 
long,  black  curls,  and  gazed  into  the  upturned,  passionate 
eyes. 

"  0,  Margaret ! "  he  cried  out,  as  if,  in  spite  of  his  will,  his 
soul  gave  the  voice  utterance,  "  my  hope,  my  joy,  my  life,  my 
Margaret ! " 

"  Husband,"  she  said,  softly. 

"  What  says  my  beloved  ?  " 

"  Did  you  know,  dearest  husband,  to-day  is  the  seventh  anni 
versary  of  our  marriage  ?  " 

"  Well,  my  Margaret,  have  you  ever  repented  it  ?  " 

"  Repented  it !  0,  my  husband  !  ask  the  captive  if  he  repents 
being  restored  to  freedom,  the  blind  man  if  he  repents  because 
he  can  once  more  see  the  glorious  sunshine  of  heaven ;  but  ask 
me  not,  if  I  repent  leaving  the  cold,  rough  sea  of  life,  on  which 
my  rudderless  bark  went  ploughing,  for  the  safe  harbor  of 
your  home  and  heart !  God  knows,  dearest,  it  seems  as  if  I 
never  could  thank  him  enough  for  these  beautiful  leaves  of  my 
destiny." 

Percy  Ruthven  trembled,  and  the  cold  sweat  started  from  his 
brow.  He  had  come  there,  with  a  purpose  strong  in  his  soul,  of 
making  a  disclosure  which  would  shiver  that  innocent,  trusting 
heart  with  agony ;  but  he  must  hold  her  there  a  while  longer, 


364  THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE. 

0 

—  villain  as  he  was,  and  deserving  of  her  hatred,  God  knew  he 
could  not  put  her  from  him  then  ! 

And  there  he  held  her,  while  the  moon  rose  up,  and  one  by 
one  the  stars  trembled  forth,  and  looked  down  into  his  guilty, 
miserable  heart,  like  the  great,  bright  eyes  of  the  angels. 

Many  times  he  raised  her  long  curls  to  his  lips,  or  pressed 
them  passionately  to  his  bosom.  Many  times  he  clasped  her  to 
his  heart,  as  a  lost  soul  would  cling  to  its  hope  of  heaven ;  and  all 
the  time  those  large,  passionate  eyes  were  not  turned  away  from 
his  face,  and  not  once  did  the  angel-eyes  of  the  stars  pause 
from  looking  into  his  wretched,  guilty  heart. 

At  last  Margaret  said,  in  a  low,  earnest  voice,  "Blessed 
be  God  that,  though  this  quiet,  beautiful  human  life  may 
not  last  always,  after  it  there  is  hope  of  a  better  life  in 
heaven ! " 

"  Would  it  cost  you  much  pain  to  part  with  me,  Margaret  ?  " 
asked  the  husband.  "  Would  n't  you  be  glad  enough  to  get  rid 
of  such  a  graceless  scamp  ?  " 

"  Part  with  you,  Percy  ?  —  get  rid  of  you  ?  0,  you  are  jest 
ing  !  —  thank  God  that  I  am  your  wife,  and  only  death  can  part 
us  !  But  don't  jest  so  again,  my  husband ;  the  very  thought  of  it 
kills  me." 

"  Nay,  Margaret,  dearest,  listen  to  me  quietly  ;  "  and  he  put 
her  gently  from  him,  and  then  sat  down  beside  her,  with  his  arm 
around  her  waist. 

"  Margaret,  you  are  pure,  pure  as  heaven ;  for  you  thought 
yourself  my  wife,  though  you  never  have  been.  I  don't  know  what 
fiend  led  me  to  substitute  a  gay  young  friend  in  the  priest's 
stead ;  a  mock  marriage  instead  of  a  real  one ;  but  I  never  meant 


THE   SECKET    MARRIAGE. 

to  part  with  you,  —  I  never  meant  you  should  know  you  were 
not  my  wife;  —  you  were  dear  as  life,  then,  my  Margaret ;  you 
are  still  dearer  now ;  but  I  have  sinned,  and  we  must  suffer. 

"  You  know,  dearest,  how  happy  we  were  in  France.  Alas 
for  it !  that  might  have  lasted  always,  but  for  this  accursed  for 
tune,  which  led  me  in  the  first  place  to  wish  our  marriage  con 
cealed,  which  tempted  me  to  wrong  your  true  heart,  by  the 
false  nuptials.  Well,  this  fortune  came  to  us,  and  we  returned 
to  England.  Since  then,  I  have  plunged  madly  into  specula 
tions,  and  they  have  all  been  cursed ;  —  they  have  failed,  ruined 
me.  I  will  not  live  disgraced,  Margaret.  You  know  me,  and  I 
say  I  will  not ! 

"  There  were  but  two  alternatives,  —  death  and  marriage.  I 
thought  of  the  subject  a  weary  while.  I  imagined  your  agony 
when  they  should  tell  you  that  Percy  Ruthven,  your  husband, 
had  died  by  his  own  hand ;  and  I  felt  that  such  a  death 
would  separate  me  from  you  forever.  It  was  for  your  sake, 
Margaret,  I  chose  marriage.  I  have  wooed  the  Lady  Alice  Sin 
clair.  She  is  young  and  fair,  but  not  so  beautiful  as  you,  Mar 
garet.  She  loves  me ;  for  her  love  I  care  not,  but  her  gold 
will  help  me  to  go  into  the  world  a  free  man,  to  surround  you, 
my  Margaret,  with  luxury.  You  shall  live  here  still,  dearest ; 
and  every  day  will  I  come  to  you,  and  care  for  you,  and  cherish 
you,  as  if  you  were  indeed  the  lady  of  Ruthven. 

"  You  have  heard  me,  calmly,  my  Margaret,  —  am  I  for 
given  ? " 

Margaret  started  to  her  feet  as  he  concluded,  and,  tossing  \\ Al 
arms  wildly  in  the  air,  she  erred, 

"O  God  0  God!  dost  thou  suffer  me  to  be  deserted — J, 
31* 


366  THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE. 


who  have  sat  by  his  side  and  slept  on  his  bosom  for  seven  long 
years  ?  Yes,  for  seven  long  years,  Percy,  have  I  forsaken  all 
and  'followed  you.  0,  be  merciful !  be  merciful !  " 

And  then,  seeing  the  tears  stealing  down  his  cheeks,  she  threw 
herself  once  more  into  his  arms,  and  cried,  "Don't  weep,  darling, 
if  it  must  be.  See,  I  am  strong,  —  I  don't  weep.  I  have  for 
given  you,  long  ago.  Kiss  me  once,  dearest,  and  then  go.  And 
listen,  Percy,  my  best  Percy,  —  don't  come  here  again  till  after 
you  are  married  !  " 

Then,  without  a  sob  or  a  moan,  she  pressed  her  lips  long, 
fondly,  clingingly  to  his,  and  then  motioned  him  to  leave  her. 
He  turned  to  depart,  but,  standing  in  the  door  and  looking  back 
upon  her,  he  cried  out,  earnestly, 

"  God  in  heaven  bless  you  and  be  good  to  you,  Margaret,  even 
as  you  have  been  good  to  me,  all  these  many  years  ! " 

A  solitary  figure  flitted  through  the  wilderness  of  London,  — 
through  the  retired  streets  of  the  West-End,  through  the  heart 
of  the  city,  onward,  and  onward,  and  ever  towards  London 
Bridge. 

Men  turned  to  gaze  on  her  as  she  fled  by  them  in  her  white 
robes,  with  the  swiftness  of  a  spirit.  Some  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  large,  dark,  fathomless  eyes ;  some,  of  the  heavy  tresses  of 
black  hair  streaming  on  the  wind  behind  her ;  and  others,  still, 
of  the  delicate  hands  clasping  the  folds  of  a  crimson  shawl  which 
floated  backward  from  her  shoulders ;  and  each  one,  as  he  gazed, 
asked  himself  what  could  she  be  doing  there  alone  in  those 
crowded  streets, —  so  young,  and  so  startlingly  beautiful. 


THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE.  367 

But  on,  on  she  pressed,  until  she  reached  the  bridge,  and  gazed 
down  on  the  waters.  Silent,  black,  sullen,  they  lay  there,  chafing 
against  the  heavy  stone-work  far  below,  and  over  them  gazed" the 
wanderer,  with  a  wild,  eager  glance. 

"  Why  should  I  live  ?  "  she  murmured.  "  Who  shall  say  I 
may  not  lay  my  head  on  this  wave's  dark  breast  and  sleep  ? 
He  is  gone ;  and  why  should  I  live  for  my  child's  sake,  if  I  am 
the  guilty  thing  he  calls  me  ?  Let  me  see ;  I  was  happy  once, 
a  long  time  ago,  was  n't  I  ?  Well,  it 's  past  now.  I  am  weary ! " 
and  the  poor  creature  clasped  her  hands  across  her  burning  brow, 
still  looking  down,  steadily,  calmly,  into  the  black,  sullen  waters. 
Who  shall  say  what  visions  of  past  happiness  were  floating 
through  her  mind  ? — what  confessions  of  sin,  what  prayers  for 
mercy,  what  unutterable  longings  for  death  and  peace  ? 

But  the  loud  voices  in  the  steeple  of  St.  Paul's  were  calling 
the  hour  of  midnight,  and  with  the  last  chime  Margaret  Here 
ford  sank  beneath  the  waves ! 

Seven  years  ago  that  very  day,  hour  and  moment,  had  she 
arisen  from  the  altar,  married  to  Percy  Ruthven ;  and  now  she 
sank,  the  bride  of  Death,  in  her  white  robes  and  snowdrop 
wreath,  into  the  arms  of  the  cold,  black  sea  ! 

"  One  more  unfortunate 

Gone  to  her  death, 
Rashly  importunate, 

Yielded  up  breath  ! 
Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Younsc,  and  so  fair." 


368  THE   SECRET   MARRIAGE. 

Percy  had  left  her  feeling  that  she  had  borne  the  stroke 
better  than  he  expected,  and  was  looking  forward  to  many  an 
hour  of  happiness  by  her  side,  when  the  waning  of  the  honey 
moon  would  permit  him  once  again  to  visit  her. 

The  sun  shone  gayly  on  the  morning  of  his  bridal.  They  were 
wedded  at  a  suburban  chapel,  and  the  bridal  cortege  drove  gayly 
through  the  streets  of  London.  The  sides  of  the  carriage  were 
put  up,  to  admit  the  clear,  fresh  air ;  and  you  could  hear  the  glad 
voice  of  the  bride  ring  out  cheerfully. 

As  they  approached  London  Bridge,  the  vehicle  was  stopped 
by  a  crowd,  unusual  even  in  that  portion  of  the  city,  and  Percy 
leaned  from  the  window  to  inquire  the  cause. 

"  Please,  your  honor,"  answered  a  man  standing  by,  "  it 's  the 
body  of  a  drowned  woman  they  have  just  brought  on  shore ;  and 
all  the  folks  must  needs  look  at  her,  she  is  so  handsome  and 
princess-like." 

Ruthven  sprang  from  the  carriage  with  an  eager  glance  of 
curiosity,  and  an  undefined  blending  of  fear.  One  glance,  and 
then  on  the  air  rung  out  a  wild,  piercing  shriek,  "  Margaret !  — 
0,  my  God  !  —  dead  !  dead  !  " 

Ere  a  year  had  passed,  the  quiet  daisies  grew  over  Alice 
Kuthven's  fresh-dug  grave ;  but  still,  at  the  window  of  a  Lon 
don  mad-house,  sits  a  wild,  dark  man,  ever  looking  toward  the 
sea,  and  shrieking  out, 

"  0,  Margaret !  Margaret !  —  dead !  dead  !  " 


THE  TWO   GRAVES. 


THERE  are  two  graves  far,  far  apart, 
And  the  deep  sea  rolls  between  ; 

O'er  one  they  've  piled  the  marble  high, 
O'er  one  the  grass  grows  green. 

In  the  one  within  a  gorgeous  fane, 
Lies  she  whom  I  called  my  bride, 
Before  whose  feet  I  knelt  of  old, 

In  her  father's  halls  of  pride. 

• 

In  the  one  behind  the  village  church, 
"Where  wild-flowers  nod  in  prayer, 

Is  resting  the  shade  of  the  purest  dream 
That  brightened  my  life  of  care ! 

The  one  had  waves  of  raven  hair, 
Bound  round  with  diamond  light, 

Like  the  circlet  of  the  evening  stars 
Upon  the  brow  of  night ! 

The  other  had  curls  like  threads  of  gold, 

And  a  smile  as  faint  and  mild 
As  those  which  the  olden  artists  paint, 

In  their  dreams  of  the  young  Christ-child ! 


THE   TAVO   GRAVES. 

One  brought  me  a  castle  gray  and  old, 
And  jewels,  and  gold,  and  lands, 

With  serfs  to  bow  at  my  lightest  word, 
And  go  at  my  first  commands. 

The  other  brought  but  the  earnest  love 

That  glowed  in  her  starlit  eyes, 
And  blest  my  heart  like  the  downward  rays 

From  the  distant  Paradise ! 
1 

I  wedded  the  one  with  stately  pomp, 

In  a  grand  cathedral  aisle, 
And  bells  were  ringing,  in  high  church-towers, 

A  sounding  chime,  the  while. 

I  wedded  the  other  as  quakers  wed, 

In  the  forest  still  and  deep, 
"When  hushed  were  the  sounds  of  «coisy  life, 

And  the  flowers  had  gone  to  sleep. 

0,  blithe  was  my  night-haired  love,  I  ween, 
With  the  light  in  her  bright  black  eye  ; 

But  dearer  far  was  my  cottage  girl, 
In  her  angel  purity. 

The  demons  wandering  over  earth 
For  the  one  spun  out  a  shroud, 

And  they  laid  her  low,  where  wax-lights  glow, 
In  the  old  cathedral  proud. 

The  other,  when  holy  stars  shone  down, 

"Was  hearing  the  angels  sing, 
And  a  truant  seraph  folded  her 

In  the  clasp  of  his  viewless  wing ! 


THE   TWO   GRAVES.  371 

They  told  me  the  one  was  lying  dead, 

And  a  tear  came  to  mine  eye  ; 
But  joy-dreams  chased  the  gloom  away, 

And  a  smile  went  flitting  by. 

They  told  me  the  other  had  gone  to  sleep, 

And  I  sought  the  battle's  strife ; 
For  I  hated  the  light  of  the  rosy  day, 

And  I  cursed  the  light  of  life  ! 

The  one  lies  still  in  her  far-off  tomb, 

Where  the  tall  wax-tapers  gleam, 
And  their  slant  rays  shine  on  the  marble  shrine 

With  a  fixed  and  ruddy  beam. 

But  over  the  other  the  night-stars  swing, 

When  the  light  of  day  has  fled, 
And  the  wild  winds  sigh  her  gentle  name, 

Till  I  wish  that  I  were  dead  ! 


MALE   COQUETTES 


"  WELL,  disappointment 's  the  lot  of  all  mankind  !  "  said  some 
venerable  sage.  He  should  have  added  an  expression  of  con 
dolence  to  the  weaker  half  of  community,  for  surely  they  are 
still  more  subject  to  the  evils  of  chance  and  change. 

You  can  hardly  read  a  poem  by  one  of  these  fair  angels  that 
does  not  complain  of  some  direful  calamity.  Indeed,  to  our  cer 
tain  knowledge,  one  lovelorn  damsel  has  been  bewailing  in  the 
newspapers  the  loss  of  her  husband,  and  some  three  or  four 
faithless  suitors,  within  the  past  few  weeks ! 

Now,  don't  put  up  both  hands,  and  murmur,  puritanically,  "  0, 
Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  !  "  for  every  one  knows  that  lovers 
are  not  so  plenty  we  can  afford  to  throw  them  away.  Every 
instance  of  this  kind  only  affords  another  example  of  the  fickle 
ness  of  man !  And  this  brings  us  to  a  subject  we  have  long 
desired  to  see  properly  discussed.  We  mean  flirting  and  coquetry 
among  the  "  lords  of  creation."  There  is  already  such  an  outcry 
made  about  coquettes  and  faithless  lady-loves,  that  one  needs  to 
stop  one's  ears,  to  shut  out  the  din ;  but  no  one  seems  to  con 
sider  that  flirting  is  twice  as  common,  and  certainly  three  times 
as  dangerous,  on  the  other  side. 

Perhaps  one  reason  may  be,  that  woman,  the  world  over,  is 
too  proudly  noble  to  complain  of  these  things.  She  locks  what 
ever  grief  there  may  be  in  her  own  heart,  and  the  cold  world  can 
only  guess  it  by  the  proud  step,  and  the  haughty  glance,  which 


MALE   COQUETTES.  373 

seem  to  say  the  treachery  of  one  has  made  the  whole  earth  seem 
a  kind  of  mirage  —  a  pageant  as  false  as  it  is  glittering.  For 
ourself,  we  cannot  speak  from  experience,  as  we  are  very  little 
yet,  and  never  had  a  beau !  But  we  can  see  a  thousand  in 
stances  of  unprincipled  coquetry  on  the  part  of  those  who  decry 
it  the  most. 

It  is  very  easy  to  clasp  trembling  fingers,  until  the  heart  sends 
back  an  answering  thrill ;  very  easy  to  gaze  in  bright  eyes,  till 
the  fair  cheek  grows  crimson  with  blushes ;  very  easy  to  soften 
the  voice  in  its  whispers  to  one  ear,  or  to  linger  tremblingly  over 
one  sweet  name ! 

You  can  do  all  these  things,  very  innocently,  of  course ;  and,  if 
they  should  awaken  a  heart-thrill  that  shall  not  be  stilled  in 
time,  —  no,  not  in  eternity,  —  you  can  shrug  your  shoulders,  and, 
throwing  your  cheroot  to  the  ground,  ejaculate,  "  Pity,  pity ! 
she  's  a  fine  girl ;  but  I  don't  love  her  —  never  told  her  I  did  in 
my  life ;  and  yet  I  'm  sorry  for  her,  —  I  am,  'pon  honor  !  " 

Most  magnanimous  young  man !  One  could  almost  consign 
you  to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  second  Mrs.  Caudle  !  No,  worse 
than  that, — for  it  has  been  proved,  to  a  demonstration,  that  a  poor 
wife  is  better  than  none,  —  one  could  wish  that  you  might  suffer 
all  the  miseries  of  an  old  bachelor !  —  the  direst  lot  that  can 
befall  humanity. 

There  are  friends  for  the  old  maid  —  the  universal  aunt! 
Children  love  her,  and  kittens  come  and  lie  in  the  fire-shine  at 
her  feet,  and  purr  !  There  are  pleasant  homes  where  her  pres 
ence  is  welcome,  and,  by  and  by,  some  poor  soul  she  has  com 
forted  will  put  a  flower  on  her  grave.  But,  for  the  old  bachelor, 
—  Heaven  help  him,  —  for  man  cares  not  for  him  ! 
32 


ALINE. 

CHAPTER     I. 

There,  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Dressed  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  ; 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan, 

Her  stately  neck  and  arms  were  bare  ; 

Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandalled  were, 

And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 

The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

I  guess  't  was  frightful  there  to  see 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she  — 

Beautiful  exceedingly  !  CHRISTABEL. 

IT  was  a  fair  scene,  the  one  where  we  would  transport  our 
reader,  in  the  old  days  when  New  York  was  the  queen  city  of 
our  young  republic,  with  scarcely  a  rival  to  dispute  her  sover 
eignty.  We  have  a  fairy  spell,  be  it  understood,  by  which  we 
pass  "  bar,  and  bolt,  and  porter's  lodge,"  and  now  we  stand  in 
the  boudoir  of  the  Lady  Aline  Wentworth. 

Judge  Wentworth  was  a  thoroughly-bred  gentleman  of-  the 
old  school,  very  rich,  and  it  had  been  his  pride  and  pleasure 
to  surround  his  motherless  girl  with  every  charm  of  the  most 
unbounded  luxury. 

The  room  where  she  was  sitting  was  exclusively  her  own  ;  and 
it  was  a  perfect  bower  of  beauty.  On  a  snowy  velvet  carpet 
shone  bunches  of  dark,  purple  grapes,  with  their  green  leaves,  as 


ALINE.  375 

if  fresh  gathered.  Beside  them  were  thrown  wreaths  of  bright 
crimson  roses,  and  blue-bells,  looking  as  if  piled  up  on  snow. 
Bunches  of  rare  exotics  were  exquisitely  arranged  in  antique 
vases  of  agate  and  porphyry,  and,  here  and  there,  of  heavily 
chased  silver ;  and  the  room  was  filled  with  a  fragrance  as  subtle 
as  that  of  the  gardens  of  Gul. 

There  were  massive  mirrors,  in  heavy  golden  frames ;  and  on 
the  wall  hung  the  glorious  paintings  of  many  an  old  master. 
There  were  pure-browed  Madonnas,  with  their  prayerful  eyes,  and 
sweet  pictures  of  the  Saints,  with  glory-halos  resting  on  their 
tresses.  Then  there  were  bunches  of  flowers  and  pleasant  land 
scape-scenes,  that  made  your  very  soul  grow  homesick  for  green 
fields  and  blue  sky. 

But  not  a  fairer  object  was  there,  in  that  luxurious  collection 
of  "the  rich  and  beautiful,  than  the  Lady  Aline  Wentworth  herself. 

You  would  hardly  have  dared  to  call  her  beautiful ;  for  there 
was  such  an  air  of  exclusiveness  about  her,  you  would  have  hesi 
tated  to  speak  of  her  as  of  any  other  woman. 

She  had  just  returned  from  the  opera,  where  she  had  been 
introduced  to  a  half-dozen  handsome  students,  and  reigned  the 
lady  paramount  of  the  occasion. 

She  had  exchanged  her  opera-dress  of  claret-colored  velvet  for 
a  white  silk  dressing-gown ;  but  still  her  arms  and  hands,  and 
her  raven  tresses,  literally  flashed  with  jewels,  and  a  cross  of 
diamonds,  on  her  fair  bosom,  rose  and  fell  with  every  breath. 

Her  forehead  was  high  and  calm  ;  her  nose  Grecian  in  its  out 
line,  with  thin  nostrils. 

Her  mouth  was  small,  and,  between  her  full  lips,  you  caught 
glimpses  of  teeth  like  pearls.  But,  though  you  might  notice  all 


376  ALINE. 

this  when  you  first  saw  her,  it  needed  to  be  but  a  moment  in  her 
presence,  ere  you  forgot  all  else,  in  the  matchless  glory  of  her 
eyes. 

Such  eyes  !  — no  description  could  realize  their  beauty  !  Large 
and  full  as  those  of  a  gazelle,  with  wells  of  light  in  them  like 
the  sea ;  and  yet  dark  and  fearful  as  the  tempest-clouds  in  a 
wild  night. 

They  were  not  eyes  that  an  artist  could  paint,  or  a  poet  sing ; 
and  yet  they  were  human  eyes,  destined  to  influence,  for  good 
or  evil,  every  soul  on  whom  they  rested. 

There  was  unmistakable  haughtiness  in  every  turn  of  Aline 
Wentworth's  small,  graceful  head ;  haughtiness  in  her  arching 
neck,  and  even  in  the  tiny,  slippered  foot  which  rested  with  such 
provoking  firmness  upon  the  velvet  carpet.  Her  position  in 
society,  her  whole  course  of  education,  had  been  exactly  calcu 
lated  to  foster  this  proud  self-reliance,  and  at  fifteen  (the  time 
our  story  opens)  Aline  Wentworth  was  a  girl  no  longer,  but  a 
high-spirited  woman. 

Among  the  students  she  had  met  at  the  opera,  was  one  whose 
image  she  had  borne  with  her  into  her  palace-home  —  a  man 
calm,  handsome,  and  with  a  full  sovereignty  of  pride,  meeting 
and  matching  her  own,  —  ERNEST  GLENVILLE. 

Was  the  name  noble  ?  It  might  be,  and  it  might  not ;  at  all 
events,  she  should  see  him  again  to-morrow. 

Her  dark  eyes  grew  fairly  liquid  with  light  as  she  murmured 
his  name,  and  the  flush  burned  on  her  damask  cheek  like  the 
heart  of  the  carnation. 


ALINE.  377 

Scarcely  a  stone's  throw  from  the  stately  mansion  of  Judge 
Wentworth,  in  a  more  obscure  part  of  the  city,  rose  a  tall,  frown 
ing,  and,  even  then,  somewhat  dilapidated  wooden  mansion.  In 
one  of  the  most  gloomy  of  its  gloomy  apartments  a  student  sat, 
gazing  forth  into  the  night. 

The  moon-rays  fell  full  upon  his  face,  and  you  could  observo 
him  closely.  His  dark-brown  hair  curled  in  short  ringlets  about 
his  calm,  firm  brow ;  his  features  were  regular,  and  rather  small, 
and  in  his  clear  blue  eye  lay  slumbering  a  will  which  might 
have  moved  a  world. 

He  had  been  called  Ernest  at  his  baptism,  and  his  sponsors 
had  chosen  well ;  for,  if  ever  there  was  a  man  on  whose  face 
power,  and  will,  and  firmness,  were  stamped  legibly,  that  man 
was  Ernest  Glenville. 

He  was  poor,  but  his  great  soul  smiled  and  mocked  at  poverty. 
His  only  amusement  was  the  opera,  where  the  music  swelled  his 
heart  with  a  new,  exultant  sense  of  strength. 

To-night,  for  the  first  time,  he  had  come  home,  bearing  with 
him  a  new  inspiration,  a  goddess  even  more  beautiful  than  fame ; 
to-night  he  had,  for  the  first  time,  seen  Aline  Wentworth,  and  it 
was  she  of  whom  he  sat  dreaming. 

At  last,  striking  his  head  with  his  hand, 

"  Fool,  that  I  am ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  mad,  insensate  fool !  What 
can  Judge  Wentworth's  daughter  be  to  me  but  a  curse  ?  "  "  And 
why  a  curse  ?  "  whispered  his  cooler  judgment ;  "  why  think  of 
her  at  all  ?  " 

"  Sure  enough,  why  ?  "  he  exclaimed  once  more.  "  I  shall  see 
her  to-morrow,  since  she  invited  me  with  Irving  and  the  rest, 
and  then  I  will  forget  her.  Ha,  ha  !  fancy  her  dainty  feet  on 
32* 


378  ALINE. 

this  bare  floor !  No,  no !  Ernest  Glenville,  there  is  work  for 
you  on  earth  ;  you  may  not  pause  to  bask  in  fortune's  smiles,  or 
woman's  eye." 

So  saying,  he  turned  over  a  file  of  papers  on  the  rickety  table, 
drew  towards  him  a  large-sized  book,  bound  in  black  leather, 
and  commenced  studying,  as  if  for  life. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  strange  fancy  to  paint  the  Lady  Aline  Went- 
worth  in  the  student's  room.  The  uncarpeted  floor  was  of  rough 
pine  boards,  and  the  single  stiff,  high-backed  chair,  had  neither 
arms  nor  rockers.  The  fire  was  kindled  in  a  gloomy-looking  little 
box-stove,  and  across  the  top  of  the  one  window  cobwebs  were 
woven,  thick  and  strong,  as  if  the  growth  of  years.  Here  dwelt 
Ernest  Glenville.  Here  dreams  were  nourished  which  the  future 
was  to  gild  with  glory ;  and  here,  for  the  first  time,  the  eyes  of 
woman  flooded  his  path  with  sunlight. 


CHAPTER     II. 

"  And  she  with  her  bright  eye  seemed  to  be 
The  star  of  the  goodlie  companie  !  " 

There  was  a  gorgeous  festival  at  the  mansion  of  Judge  Went- 
worth. 

The  light  fell  pleasantly  downward,  from  lamps  of  porcelain, 
held  in  the  marble  fingers  of  rare  statues,  over  a  scene  of  strange 
brilliancy.  There  were  handsome  men,  and  beautiful  women; 
jewels,  and  robes  of  silken  sheen. 

But  there  were  two  who  seemed  to  attract  more  attention 
than  any  others.  The  host's  fair  daughter,  Aline,  and,  standing 
beside  her,  the  handsome  student,  Ernest  Glenville. 


ALINE.  379 

The  proudly-beautiful  woman  stood  in  the  alcove  of  a  window, 
leaning  gracefully  against  a  statue  of  Juno,  which  might  not  in 
appropriately  have  been  modelled  after  herself.  In  one  hand 
she  held  her  jewelled  bouquet-holder,  while  with  the  other  she 
was  pulling  in  pieces  a  fragrant  half-opened  moss-rosebud. 

The  dark  waves  of  her  jetty  hair  were  knotted  with  diamonds, 
and  a  single  ruby  burned  upon  her  bosom,  like  a  spark  of  fire. 
She  was  talking  in  a  low,  musical  tone  to  Ernest  Glenville,  of 
passion,  and  poetry,  and  fame.  Her  wild  eyes  burned  and 
sparkled  till  they  kindled  up  his  soul ;  and  then,  in  turn,  his  voice 
grew  eloquent  with  music,  as  he  spoke  of  the  past,  dwelling 
always  upon  the  triumph  and  success  of  men  of  low  estate,  —  those 
great  souls  which  have  climbed  upward,  and  made  themselves 
mates  for  kings  and  nobles;  and  Aline  Wentworth  listened,  until 
her  proud  heart  did  him  homage,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  loved. 

Weeks  passed  on,  and,  reckless  of  the  future,  forgetful  of  the 
destiny  his  own  hand  was  to  carve,  day  after  day  Ernest  Glen 
ville  sought  the  presence  of  the  enchantress,  and  hushed  his  very 
soul  to  listen  to  the  music  of  her  voice,  or  drink  in  her  beauty 
like  an  inspiration. 

At  last,  one  night  he  sought  her  in  her  luxurious  boudoir,  and 
told  his  love.  He,  who  had  never  before  breathed  words  of  pas 
sion  in  woman's  ear,  grew  strangely  eloquent,  and  the  light  burned 
wilder  than  ever  in  Aline's  glorious  eyes.  When  he  paused,  she 
drew  his  hand  to  her  lips,  with  more  than  woman's  tenderness, 
and  whispered  those  three  words,  so  musical  on  the  lips  of  the 
beloved,  "  I  love  you !  " 


380  ALINE. 

For  one  instant  Ernest  G  lenville  caught  her  to  his  heart ;  and 
then,  resolutely  putting  her  from  him,  he  said, 

"  My  Aline !  —  no,  not  mine  yet.  I  have  a  revelation  to 
make,  before  I  ask  you  to  become  my  plighted  bride.  I  am  not 
wealthy,  like  your  honored  father,  but  poor,  abjectly  poor,  as 
far  as  this  world's  goods  are  concerned ;  I  am  rich  in  nothing 
but  courage,  and  an  unfaltering  soul.  I  can  feel  my  destiny 
stirring  within  me.  I  know  I  shall  do  something,  yet,  this  great 
world  will  not  blush  to  own.  If  you  are  mine,  it  is  necessary 
you  should  have  faith  in  me.  We  must  wait,  it  may  be  years, 
before  I  could  have  a  home  to  offer  you.  Think  calmly  ;  will 
you,  Aline  Wentworth,  become  the  poor  man's  promised  bride  ? 
Remember  what  you  say  now  is  said  forever,  and  do  not  answer 
rashly ! " 

Aline  gazed  for  a  second  into  his  clear  blue  eyes,  and  then, 
turning  from  him,  she  paced  the  room,  breathing  rapidly,  and 
wringing  her  hands.  He  had  cautioned  her  against  rashness; 
but  every  moment  that  she  waited  swept  over  him  like  an  age  of 
torture.  There  was  a  fierce  struggle  going  on  in  the  young  girl's 
soul,  —  love  and  pride  contending  for  the  mastery.  Which  shall 
conquer  ?  < . 

Glenville  held  his  breath,  and  the  sweat  stood  upon  his  brow 
in  great  beaded  drops,  until  at  last  the  cry  of  his  heart  burst 
forth,  — 

"  Aline,  Aline !  " 

The  girl  came  and  stood  beside  him.  Tears  were  in  her  large 
black  eyes,  and  trembled  on  her  long,  fringe-like  lashes,  as  she 
raised  her  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  brushed  back  the  clustering 


ALINE.  381 


curls  She  spoke  at  last,  in  answer  to  the  mute  appeal  in  his 
passionate  glance. 

"  I  cannot,  0  Ernest  Glenville,  I  cannot !  —  I  love  you,  God 
knows  I  do,  —  I  who  never  loved  mortal  before  ;  but  to  marry 
you, —  0,  Ernest,  do  not  ask  it !  " 

"  It  is  well,  Aline  Wentworth ;  you  have  chosen ;  "  and,  so  say 
ing,  Glenville  turned  away;  but  apparently  a  secret  impulse 
urged  him  to  return ;  for  he  came  back,  and,  clasping  her  trem 
bling  form  in  his  arms,  he  pressed  on  her  lips  one  kiss,  long  and 
thrilling,  and  then,  saying  once  more  those  solemn  words,  "  You 
have  chosen,"  he  left  the  house. 

For  a  long  time  Aline  Wentworth  sat  there  still  and  quiet  as 
he  had  left  her.  She  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing,  but  those  three 
words  of  warning.  They  haunted  her  sleep  for  many  a  night 
after  that.  The  struggle  between  love  and  pride  had  been  ter 
rible,  and  the  conqueror  dared  not  even  triumph  in  his  victory. 

Three  months  after  saw  Ernest  Glenville  enlisted  in  the  French 
army  under  Napoleon,  at  that  time  himself  a  subaltern. 

Those  were  stirring  times  in  the  early  days  of  the  French  re 
public,  when  fame  and  promotion  hung  upon  the  broad  sword's 
gleam  and  the  musket's  flash,  when  ten  days  could  raise  the 
meanest  name  to  glory.  Stirring  times,  when  Europe  stood  still, 
awe-struck,  and  men's  hearts  were  failing  them  for  fear.  Here, 
in  these  wild  days,  and  under  an  assumed  name,  Ernest  Glen 
ville  struggled  with  the  fierce  energy  despair  so  often  brings  to 
a  noble  soul.  Aline  knew  not  where  he  was;  but  hope  whis 
pered  that  for  her  sake  he  might  win  power  and  glory,  and  then 
return  to  her  side. 

She  should  have  known  him  better.     He  had  well  said  her 


382  ALINE. 

words  must  be  forever;  and,  had  he  been  the  possessor  of  an 
earldom,  ten  days  after  their  strange  parting,  he  would  not  have 
shared  it  with  Aline  Wentworth. 

He  thought  of  her,  indeed,  not  in  scorn,  not  in  anger ;  but,  0, 
not  with  love,  —  at  least,  not  with  the  love  of  passion  ;  but  calmly, 
and  with  a  subdued,  gentle  sorrow,  as  we  think  of  those  long  ago 
dead ;  and  he  only  knew  that  he  had  been  unhappy,  by  the 
desolation  which  left  him  nothing  for  which  to  hope  ! 


C1IAPTEK     III. 

"  And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain  !  " 

TENNYSON 
"  Yet,  press  on  ! 

For  it  shall  make  you  mighty  among  men  ; 
And  from  the  eyrie  of  your  eagle  thought 
Ye  shall  look  down  on  monarchs  !  "  —  WILLIS. 

A  period  of  six  years  passed.  Other  houses  had  grown  up 
around  the  palace-home  of  Judge  Wentworth.  New  York  was 
gayer  than  ever,  and  Aline  Wentworth  more  beautiful.  It  was 
an  autumn  afternoon.  The  country  was  glorious  with  the  balmy 
air,  the  trees  heavy  with  their  ripe  fruit,  and  the  fields  rich  with 
waving  grain.  Something  of  this  autumn  glory  had  penetrated 
the  heart  of  the  city,  and  was  flooding  the  gorgeous  furniture 
in  Aline  Wentworth's  boudoir. 

Never  had  the  Lady  Aline  been  fairer.  Her  robe  of  many- 
shaded  India  silk  became  well  the  clear  olive  of  her  gypsy-like 
complexion.  Her  jetty  hair  seemed  almost  to  emit  sparks  of 
xight,  and  her  glorious  eyes  out-flashed  the  diamonds  on  her  brow. 


ALINE.  383 

A  man,  in  the  pride  and  prime  of  life,  gallant  and  noble,  was 
kneeling  beside  her.  His  mien  betokened  one  rather  used  to 
command  than  to  entreat ;  and  yet  there  was  a  world  of  tender 
ness  in  the  voice  which  pleaded  for  that  proud  woman's  love  ' 
The  lady  rose  at  last,  withdrawing  her  hand  from  his  passionate 
clasp,  and  stood  before  him,  with  her  proud  eyes,  and  full,  stately 
figure. 

"  I  do  not,"  she  said,  very  calmly,  "  I  do  not  estimate  lightly 
the  honor  you  have  done  me,  General  Howe.  I  am  but  the  more 
sensible  of  it  when  I  know  that  it  is  profitless.  I  have  listened 
to  your  words,  and  they  awoke  no  echo  in  my  own  heart.  God 
knows  I  wish  it  were  otherwise ;  but  so  it  is,  and  I  will  not 
wrong  your  noble  nature  by  giving  you  my  hand  without  my 
heart.  Leave  me  now,  and  God  grant  you  may  be  happier  than 
ever  Aline  Wentworth  could  have  made  you ! " 

For  one  moment  he  bowed  his  head  over  the  fair  hand  that 
was  extended  to  him,  and  then  Aline  Wentworth  was  alone ! 

Sinking  down  among  the  velvet  cushions  of  her  boudoir,  she 
bent  her  head,  and  sobbed  pitifully. 

"  0  Ernest,  Ernest !  "  she  rather  groaned  than  said,  "  have  I 
not  been  faithful  ?  Wealth,  and  rank,  and  power,  have  tempted 
me  in  vain.  Every  throb  of  my  heart  through  all  these  weary 
years  has  been  but  thine.  Wilt  thou  never  come  back  ?  " 

Ah,  Aline !  that  fierce  pride  is  working  out  its  own  terrible 
retribution. 

It  is  a  bitter  cup.  but  thou  shalt  drink  it  to  the  dregs  ! 

That  same  pleasant  autumn  day,  in  1802,  witnessed  another 
wooing. 

One  there  was,  in  Napoleon's  army  of  fierce  spirits,  whom 


884  ALINE. 

men  called  "  Bravest  of  the  Brave."  He  had  charged  on  many 
a  battle-field,  riding  down  men  and  spears  like  dust.  His  very 
name  was  a  host  in  itself;  and  where  foe  met  foe,  if  but  his  legion 
of  invincibles  hurled  themselves  into  the  fight,  if  but  he  thun 
dered  upon  the  enemy,  Napoleon  would  sit  down  calmly  and 
write,  "  The  day  is  won !  " 

At  first  but  an  unknown  soldier  in  the  ranks,  he  had  risen 
rapidly,  until  now  a  Marshal's  baton  had  been  the  reward  of  his 
valor.  And  now  there  was  peace,  brief,  indeed,  but  yot  peace, 
though  the  couch  where  the  tired  nations  lay  still  and  rested  was 
piled  up  on  muskets. 

In  Paris  rose  many  a  stately  palace,  and  in  the  grounds  sur 
rounding  one  of  the  fairest  walked  he  whom  men  called  the 
"  Bravest  of  the  Brave,"  with  a  young  girl  by  his  side.  Scarce 
fifteen  summers  had  deepened  the  rose-tint  upon  her  cheeks,  or 
woven  their  sunshine  in  her  hair.  Her  brow  was  like  the  large 
white  leaves  of  the  water-lily,  broad,  and  smooth,  and  fair.  Her 
eyes  were  of  that  rich,  violet  blue,  something  the  color  of  the 
lapis-lazuli,  rarely  seen  but  in  the  islands  of  the  sea,  and  seldom 
even  there.  Her  figure  was  slight  and  fairy-like  as  a  child's; 
and  the  trust  and  unsullied  purity  of  girlhood  shone  in  her 
clear  eyes,  as  she  turned  them  upon  her  companion. 

"  Sit  down  with  me,  Julie  Augne,"  at  length  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  command  better  suited  to  camp  than  court,  and  yet  with  an 
inexpressible  tenderness. 

And  then,  with  that  fair  young  creature  sitting  by  his  side, 
the  soldier  told  his  love,  while  the  shadow  of  her  long  lashes 
drooped  over  the  cheek  of  Julie  Augne.  Her  lips  quivered, 
and  her  lithe  little  figure  fluttered  like  a  bird 


ALINE.  385 

"  Julie,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  one  learns  but  ill  courtly  phrase 
in  the  mad  encounter,  where  men  hold  their  breaths,  and  war- 
horses  dash  onward,  with  the  bits  between  their  teeth.  And  yet, 
Julie,  one  learns  there  to  protect  the  loved,  to  guard  them,  ay, 
with  one's  life ;  and  so  would  I  guard  thee,  sweet  one.  Will 
you  trust  me,  my  beautiful  child  ?  " 

For  one  moment  Julie  Augne  raised  her  clear,  truthful  eyes  to 
his,  and  he  could  see  that  the  lashes  were  heavy  with  tears,  and 
then  she  spoke. 

"  But  you,  sir,  how  can  you  love  me  ?  Have  you  not  loved 
another  ?  I  have  heard  men  say  that  the  secret  of  your  bravery 
was  because  you  had  nothing  more  to  lose, — because  you  had  lost 
all,  with  a  lost  love.  Where  Julie  Augne  cannot  have  all,  she 
scorns  to  share  anything !  "  and  the  young  girl  turned  away  with 
a  pride  scarcely  less  imperious  than  that  of  Aline  Wentworth 
herself.  But  her  lover  noticed  it  not,  for  he  resumed, 

"  Listen  to  me,  Julie,  and  you  shall  know  everything.  I  am 
not  what  it  has  been  my  interest  to  appear,  the  son  of  poor 
French  parents.  I  am  an  American,  whose  only  heritage  in  his 
orphan  boyhood  was  a  noble  name,  and  bitter  poverty. 

"  I  was  a  student.  I  hardly  know  how  I  became  one,  but 
alone  and  unaided  I  struggled  upward. 

"  Years  ago,  when  I  was  very  young,  I  was  introduced  to  one 
whom  the  world  would  have  called  far  my  superior,  —  one 
beautiful  as  the  fairest  dream  of  an  opium-eater.  I  hardly 
know  whether  I  ever  loved  her.  I  only  know  she  dazzled  and 
bewildered  me,  and  my  whole  future  seemed  bounded  by  her 
smiles. 

"  My  passion  for  her  was  sudden;  it  did  not  grow  up,  like  my 
33 


386  ALINE. 

love  for  you,  from  weeks  of  patient  knowledge,  while  I  read  your 
pure  heart  like  a  book. 

"It  yas  a  dream,  —  and  like  a  dream  it  vanished.  She 
refused  to  be  mine,  Julie,  because  I  was  poor  and  unknown ; 
and  yet  I  know  she  loved  me.  She  is  free  still,  but  I  have  no 
wish  to  share  with  her  my  toil-won  glory.  She  is  to  me  as  one 
dead ;  but  you,  Julie,  my  beautiful  darling,  will  you  not  be  my 
living  love,  my  wife  ?  " 

Tears  and  smiles  and  blushes  chased  themselves  over  the 
young  girl's  sunny  face,  as  she  placed  her  hand  in  his,  and 
returned  to  the  house  a  plighted  bride. 

Brilliantly,  as  if  for  a  festival,  burned  the  tall  wax  tapers  in 
the  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame.  Clouds  of  incense  floated  out 
upon  the  air,  and  the  organ  melody  from  the  lofty  choir  was 
faint  and  sweet  as  the  far-off  anthems  of  angels.  Before  the 
altar  knelt  Julie  Augne.  The  first  consul,  Napoleon  himself, 
gave  away  the  bride,  and  Julie  rose  from  that  silent  prayer  a 
wife. 

It  boots  not  to  write  of  festivals  given  in  her  honor,  of  the 
!ove  that  surrounded  her  with  luxury ;  for  in  the  palace,  as  in  the 
cottage,  the  crown  word  and  jewel  of  a  woman's  life  is  love. 
Without  it  fame  and  glory  are  but  as  apples  of  Sodom,  and  the 
sceptre  mocks  the  hand  that  wields  it. 

But  there  was  happiness  in  the  palace-home  of  Julie  Augne, 
for  she  was  beloved ! 


ALINE.  387 


CHAPTER     IV. 

"  Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth, 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth, 
And  constancy  dwells  in  realms  above, 
And  life  is  thorny,  and  youth  is  vain, 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  on  the  brain." 

COLERIDGE. 

It  was  the  winter  of  1807 ;  the  power  of  Napoleon  had 
reached  its  zenith.  Paris  was  an  universal  festival.  The  shop- 
windows  were  gay  with  colored  lights,  and  trade,  which  had  been 
stagnant  during  the  stormy  days  of  the  republic,  was  brisk  and 
lively  under  the  brilliant  reign  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon. 

In  a  hotel  on  one  of  the  most  fashionable  streets,  sat  a  beauti 
ful  woman,  —  remarkable  among  a  thousand,  even  in  that  "  age 
of  handsome  women." 

She  had  been  in  Paris  only  five  days,  and  already  her  stair 
case  was  crowded  with  liveried  pages,  bearing  costly  bouquets, 
and  dainty,  perfumed  notes.  Many  a  title  had  already  in  these 
brief  five  days  been  laid  at  her  feet,  and  still  Aline  Wentworth 
(for  she  it  was)  walked  majestically  onward,  with  her  great, 
dreamy  eyes  gazing  far  away,  never  seeming  to  recognize  the 
bare  existence  of  her  titled  train  of  suitors. 

She  sat  in  her  boudoir,  with  the  busy  fingers  of  her  maid 
Lucille  rapidly  employed  in  arranging  her  for  the  opera.  Bou 
quets  of  the  costliest  exotics  lay  about  the  room  all  unheeded ; 
on  some  of  them  she  had  trampled,  and  they  lay  there  crushed 
and  fading,  and  yet  swelling  the  air  with  fragrance. 


388  ALINE. 

Jewels  lay  upon  the  velvet  carpet,  jewels  were  strewn  upon 
the  damask  lounge,  and  still  others  gleamed  in  their  agate  cas 
kets,  and  bathed  the  room  in  a  flood  of  light..  Kich  robes  were 
scattered  about  on  chairs  and  lounges,  and  on  her  inlaid  table 
lay  the  costliest  and  most  delicate  gifts,  tokens  of  the  gay  world's 
homage. 

But,  amid  all  this  splendor,  Aline  Wentworth's  thoughts  were 
far  away.  What  mattered  it  to  her  that  already  she  was  called 
the  handsomest  woman  in  Paris,  that  she  was  surrounded  by 
more  than  the  luxury  of  a  princess,  that  the  world  was  going 
mad  about  her  beauty  ?  What  mattered  it,  when  cheerfully  she 
would  have  laid  down  all  this  luxury,  and  gone  forth  in  peasant's 
cap  and  gown,  but  for  one  kiss  from  lips  that  she  had  known  and 
loved  long  ago  ? 

She  heard  but  one  tone,  saw  but  one  face,  in  the  magic  land 
of  her  fancy,  —  the  face  of  Ernest  Glenville,  the  tone  in  which 
he  said  "  You  have  chosen  !  " 

And  yet  not  one  word  had  she  heard  from  him  since  that 
night  on  which  they  had  so  strangely  parted.  He  had  sailed 
for  Europe  under  an  assumed  name,  and  she  knew  nothing  of  his 
departure  from  New  York,  or  of  his  after-fate.  It  was  a  love, 
strong  as  her  nature,  which  had  then  usurped  the  throne  of  her 
heart.  Her  pride  was  fierce  and  strong,  —  stronger  than  death ; 
but  this  love  had  conquered  even  that,  for  she  would  have 
bowed  her  haughty  head,  and  gone  forth  gladly  to  shame,  or 
ruin,  so  it  had  been  as  the  bride  of  Ernest  Glenville. 

Once,  since  her  arrival  in  Paris,  she  had  been  presented  at 
court,  and  the  impression  she  produced  there  by  her  marvellous 
beauty  was  very  singular.  Napoleon  himself  had  gazed  on  her 


ALINE.  389 

with  a  glance  of  admiration  that  brought  the  blushes  to  her  clear, 
transparent  cheek ;  and  Josephine,  almost  the  fairest  woman  of 
the  time,  had  taken  her  hand,  and  pressed  her  lips  to  her  brow 
with  a  sister's  kindness. 

There  was  one  name  which,  ever  since  her  arrival  in  Paris, 
had  fallen  on  Aline's  ear  in  accents  of  almost  idolatrous  admira 
tion,  —  that  of  Marshal  Michael  Ney,  the  "  Bravest  of  the 
Brave."  She  had  heard  it  mentioned  reverently  by  the  people, 
affectionately  by  the  emperor,  and  proudly  by  his  brethren  in 
arms,  and  already  the  very  sound  had  a  strange  power  over 
her  fancy. 

It  seemed  to  carry  her  backward  into  fields  of  battle.  She 
saw  a  clear  blue  eye,  an  unfaltering  mien ;  and  she  saw  this 
soldier  fight  as  if  some  spirit  had  risen  from  the  grave,  armed  to 
the  teeth.  Then  she  saw  him,  brave  and  grandly  kind,  like  an 
angel  of  mercy,  caring  for  the  wounded,  soothing  the  mourner, 
and  anon,  once  more  at  the  head  of  his  division,  in  the  fierce 
fight,  for  death  or  annihilation. 

He  had  been  away  from  Paris,  and  on  this,  the  first  night  of 
his  return,  she  had  been  told  she  would  see  him  at  the  opera ; 
and  all  day  she  looked  •  forward  to  it  with  an  almost  feverish 
anxiety.  But  now  even  this  hero  of  her  dreams  had  faded  from 
her  mind,  as  she  sat  there  in  her  Genoa  velvet  easy-chair,  with 
the  busy  fingers  of  Lucille  plaiting  the  jetty  masses  of  her  shining 
hair  into  waves. 

The  blushing,  trembling  spell  of  her  girlhood's  love  was  upon 
her  heart  to-night  in  all  its  power,  and  she  dreamed  on,  till,  un 
consciously  to  herself,  her  parted  lips  murmured  "  Ernest,"  and 
the  sound  awoke  her  from  her  revery. 
33* 


390  ALINE. 

"  You  have  done  well,  Lucille,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  arose, 
and  stood  before  the  lofty  mirror,  extending  from  floor  to  ceiling. 
"  You  may  knot  a  few  diamonds  in  my  hair ;  or,  stay,  I  will 
wear  simply  this  pearl  rose-bud." 

0,  what  a  beauty  she  was !  How  fair  were  the  small 
hands  which  smoothed  down  the  folds  of  her  sable  velvet !  how 
delicately  rounded  the  arms,  whose  exquisite  contour  seemed 
heightened  by  the  drapery  of  illusion  lace  ! 

At  last  she  was  attired  ;  the  tiny  gloves  had  been  drawn  over 
the  slender  fingers,  a  mantle  of  white  cashmere  had  been  folded 
about  her  regal  figure,  and  she  placed  in  her  jewelled  bouquet- 
holder  one  bouquet  more  elegant  and  costly  than  the  rest,  for  it 
was  the  gift  of  Josephine  herself. 

Entering  her  carriage,  in  a  few  moments  she  was  securely 
seated  in  her  box  at  the  opera,  while  whispers  of  "  how  beauti 
ful  !  how  beautiful !  "  were  heard  all  around  her. 

It  could  not  but  have  flattered  any  ordinary  woman's  vanity 
thus  to  be  the  mark  for  every  opera-glass  in  the  most  brilliant 
assemblage  in  Paris;  but  Aline  Wentworth  betrayed  not  the 
slightest  satisfaction  in  glance  or  motion.  Proud  and  queenly 
she  sat  there,  as  if  she  honored  Paris  by  accepting  the  people's 
homage. 

"  Vive  L'Empereur !  "  shook  the  building  to  its  centre,  as 
Napoleon  entered  with  his  suite  ;  and  then  there  was  a  cry  scarcely 
less  loud,  "  Long  live  the  Marshal  !  the  '  Bravest  of  the 
brave  ! '  "  and  Marshal  Michael  Ney  entered  the  Royal  Theatre. 

At  the  first  glance,  Aline  Wentworth  had  uttered  a  faint  cry 
and  sank  down  breathless  ;  but  she  had  not  been  noticed  in  the 
tremendous  excitement,  and  in  five  minutes  she  sat  erect,  strong 


ALINE.  391 

and  cold,  in  the  full  glory  of  her  matchless  pride.  Her  eyes  had 
recognized,  beneath  the  Marshal's  star  and  the  cross  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor,  a  breast  to  which  she  had  once  been  folded ;  those 
blue  eyes  had  once  gazed  into  her  own,  that  voice  had  murmured 
her  name  ;  but  she  had  chosen  for  herself,  and  this  great,  glorious 
man  had  gone  forth  from  her  side,  to  win  a  name  she  might  not 
share;  for  this  soldier,  this  Marshal  Michael  Ney,  was  but 
the  poor  student,  Ernest  Glenville,  older  grown. 

Well  had  he  said  he  felt  his  destiny  stirring  within  him ;  he 
knew  he  should  do  something  yet  this  world  need  not  blush  to 
own ! 

But  he  was  hers  no  longer.  A  being  was  by  his  side  whose 
loveliness  could  hardly  grow  dim  even  in  the  blaze  of  her  own 
beauty. 

Aline  understood,  by  love's  quick  intuition,  that  it  was  the 
Marshal's  wife,  this  fair  child,  —  for  even  now  she  was  little  past 
the  age  of  girlhood,  —  on  whom  he  gazed  so  tenderly. 

She  was  very  sweet,  with  a  slight  form,  and  hair  like  an 
angel's  wing,  changing,  and  bright,  and  golden.  Her  eyes,  — 
but  they  were  like  nothing  on  earth,  —  and  scarcely  were  the 
stars  of  heaven,  set  floating  in  their  sea  of  blue,  as  beautiful. 
Her  dress  was  of  pure  white  satin,  and  some  bright  roses  lay 
trembling  with  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall. 

What  wonder  that  Aline  Wentworth's  heart  grew  sick  and 
shuddering  ?  But  it  was  a  glorious  night ;  never  were  the  lamps 
brighter,  never  were  the  dress-boxes  a  more  intense  blaze  of  gems 
and  beauty,  and  never,  never  swelled  music  on  the  air  with  such 
high,  exultant  strains  of  melody. 

Not  once,  in  all  this  long  evening,  did  Aline  take  her  eyes 


392  ALINE. 

from  the  Marshal  and  his  bride.  Her  own  admirers  watched  in 
vain  for  a  glance,  until  their  patience  was  exhausted,  and  their 
lorgnettes  turned  in  other  directions ;  and  still  the  lights  blazed, 
still  the  music  sounded,  and  still  Ernest  Glenville  knew  not  that 
the  eyes  of  his  early  love  were  resting  upon  his  face.  But  at 
last  it  was  all  over ;  stately  carriages  rolled  homeward,  and 
Paris  slept. 

Released  from  the  necessity  of  self-control,  it  was  fearful  to 
witness  the  paroxysms  of  Aline  Wentworth's  grief.  She  dis 
missed  her  maid,  and  paced  hurriedly  to  and  fro  in  her  room. 
She  tore  her  magnificent  hair  till  it  hung  in  dishevelled  masses 
about  her  haughty  form ;  she  bit  her  lips  till  they  were  stained 
with  blood  ;  she  snatched  off  her  jewels,  and  flung  them  away  ; 
she  stamped  her  delicate  feet ;  she  tore  the  drapery  from  her 
beautiful  arms,  and  the  folds  of  silk  and  linen  from  her  passion 
ate  heart ;  she  threw  herself  prostrate  on  the  floor,  with  her 
black  locks  and  torn  garments  streaming  around  her.  Then  she 
arose,  and  lifted  up  her  clenched  hand. 

Splendid,  yet  terrible  sight !  One  moment  she  seemed  a  fury, 
fearful  in  her  grief;  the  next,  she  was  touchingly  beautiful,  as 
anguish,  and  sorrow,  and  regret  at  this  blighting  of  her  first, 
strong  love,  agitated  her. 

Then  the  dark  eyes  were  thrown  upward  in  an  intensity  of 
agony,  their  long  lashes  trembling  on  the  contracted  brows; 
then  her  burning  lips  quivered,  and  her  hand  pressed  her 
throbbing  bosom,  while  the  attitude  of  that  superb  form  was 
eloquent  of  despair. 

Half  the  night  the  excited  woman  gave  herself  up  to  this 
uncontrollable  outbreak  of  her  agony ;  then  she  sank  into  a 


ALINE.  393 

feverish  slumber.     After  this,  though  her  disappearance  caused 
a  nine  days'  wonder,  Paris  heard  no  more  of  Aline  Wentworth. 


CHAPTER     Y. 

"  The  bands  are  ranked  —  the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussulman, 
The  full  of  hope,  misnamed  forlorn, 
Who  hold  the  thought  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  by  falchion's  force, 
Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a  corse, 
O'er  which  the  conquering  brave  must  rise, 
Their  stepping-stone  the  last  who  dies." 

SIEGE  OP  CORINTH. 

"  Ah,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ; 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre."  CAMPBELL. 

It  was  the  morning  of  June  18th,  1815,  eight  years  after  the 
close  of  our  last  chapter.  The  star  of  Napoleon  had  set,  mean 
time  ;  —  he  had  spent  at  Elba  a  night  turbulent  with  fearful 
dreams,  and  now  it  seemed  to  be  once  more  ascending  to  its 
zenith  ;  once  more  the  "  man  of  destiny  "  was  at  the  head  of  a 
French  army,  and  the  broad  field  of  Waterloo  resounded  to  the 
wild,  triumphant  cry,  "  Vive  I'Empereur  !  " 

0,  what  a  grand  mental  panorama  passes  before  our  eyes, 
conjured,  as  by  a  spell,  by  that  one  word,  Waterloo  !  We  seem 
once  more  to  hear  the  shrieks  which  caused  old  men's  hair  to 
stiffen  years  afterwards  in  their  dreams  at  night ;  to  live  over 
those  terrible  moments  when  the  enemy  was  hidden  by  fire  and 


394  ALINE. 

smoke,  and,  seeing  nothing,  you  could  only  track  his  presence  by 
a  dull,  heavy,  rumbling  sound,  the  echo  of  his  tread  in  the  solid 
earth,  jarring  both  men  and  horses ;  the  silence,  after  a  heavy 
charge  of  artillery,  broken  only  by  the  groans  of  the  dying. 

And  yet  men  call  war  glorious,  and  speak  of  battles  as  a 
splendid  pastime.  Ah !  it  may  seem  so,  when  the  fight  is  rag 
ing,  the  horses  prancing,  the  bugles  sounding ;  but  to  die  in 
battle,  —  to  be  left  for  hostile  feet  to  spurn,  hostile  cavalry  to 
trample,  and  the  vulture  to  swoop  upon  at  last ! 

It  makes  one's  blood  run  cold  to  think  of  it.  It  is  not  the 
mere  dying ;  many  seek  that,  and  the  brave  man  fears  it  no 
where  ;  but  it  is  to  die  with  no  fond  hand  to  brush  back  the 
heavy  locks  from  the  fevered  brow,  no  gentle  voice  to  murmur 
words  of  strength  and  love ;  to  have  no  grave  nor  any  to  weep" 
for  us ;  no  prayer,  no  farewell,  nor  any  blessing  !  0,  may  God 
save  all  I  love  from  a  fate  like  this ! 

But  the  battle  of  Waterloo  was  a  glorious  battle,  as  battles 
go ;  and  ever  before  our  mind's  eye,  when  its  name  is  called, 
rises  one  figure,  tall  and  stately.  Connected  as  imperishably 
with  this  great  battle  as  that  of  Napoleon  himself,  is  the  name 
of  the  "  Bravest  of  the  Brave." 

How  he  looked,  that  morning  !  The  white  plumes  on  his  hel 
met  nodded  with  the  heavy  dew  ;  his  gorgeous  uniform  glittered 
in  the  light  of  the  morning  sun,  and  he  himself,  reining  up  his 
proud  steed,  seemed,  with  his  Herculean  stature  and  bold  mien, 
as  some  warlike  presence,  that  had  risen  out  of  the  earth  for 
the  defence  of  his  country's  rights,  and  the  green  fields  of  his 
fathers. 

The  day  was  nearly  ended  when  was  made  the  last  memorable 


ALINE.  395 

charge  of  the  Old  Guard,  —  such  a  charge  as  time  never  before 
witnessed.  Ney  had  five  horses  shot  beneath  him,  and  then, 
chafing  like  a  lion,  fought  on  foot,  at  the  head  of  his  advancing 
legions.  But  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he,  the  Invin 
cible,  was  borne  down  by  superior  numbers.  France  and  the 
empire  were  in  his  hands,  and  he  struggled  mightily  to  wrest 
them  from  the  grasp  of  destiny ;  but  in  vain.  The  "  Bravest  of 
the  Brave  "  had  fought  his  last  battle  ! 


In  a  lowly  prison-cell  we  next  find  him.  He  had  been  con 
demned  to  be  shot  as  a  traitor,  and  was  awaiting  his  doom  with 
the  calmness  of  a  hero.  A  single  lamp  burned  dimly  in  his  cell, 
as  he  sat  there  alone,  with  his  head  bowed  on  his  hands. 

Suddenly  a  key  turned  in  the  rusty  lock,  the  door  swung  open 
on  its  hinges,  and  Julie  stood  before  him,  with  her  three  fair  chil 
dren.  He  was  so  intensely  absorbed  in  thought,  that  he  did  not 
even  look  up  until  he  felt  his  wife's  arms  about  his  neck,  her 
tears  warm  upon  his  face. 

"  Julie  !  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  Heaven  be  thanked  for  so  much 
mercy  !  I  die  to-morrow  at  ten,  and  I  had  not  thought  to  see 
.you  here." 

"  Die  !    No,  dearest,  I  am  come  to  tell  you  you  shall  not  die 
I  will  go  to  the  king  to-morrow,  and  pray  him,  on  my  bended 
knees,  to  spare  your  life.     We  will  go  anywhere, — into  any 
island  or  desert,  so  he  but  leave  that ;  and  he  will  not,  he  dare 
not,  refuse  it  to  your  wife  ! " 

Ney  turned  his  large  blue  eyes  on  her  with  a  mournful  smile, 


396  ALINE. 

for  lie  knew  the  Bourbons  ;  but  he  would  not  deprive  her  of  this 
last,  faint  hope  ;  so  he  said,  quietly, 

"  Well,  Julie,  call  my  children  to  me  ;  it  will  do  no  harm  to 
bid  them  farewell,  and  I  can  unsay  it  when  you  shall  have  won 
me  my  life  to-morrow."  Then,  turning  to  his  children,  he  added, 
solemnly,  "  Ernest,  Julie,  Michael,  your  father  blesses  you  !  Be 
good  children ;  be  faithful  to  God,  to  your  mother  and  to  France. 
Your  father  has  loved  France, — do  you  love  her;  never  remem 
ber  how  I  died,  but  love  your  country,  and  do  not  disgrace  my 
memory.  You,  Ernest  and  Michael,  be  good  to  your  mother  and 
sister,  —  so  only  will  the  good  God  prosper  you." 

Then  he  clasped  them  each  separately  in  his  arms,  and  blessed 
them ;  and,  turning  to  his  wife,  he  gave  her  many  words  of  ear 
nest  and  tender  counsel.  In  the  midst  of  his  discourse,  the 
turnkey  came  to  the  door,  and  the  hour  for  their  interview  was 
ended. 

"  God  bless  you,  Julie  ! "  whispered  the  hero,  amid  his  choking 
sobs  ;  "  bear  it  like  a  soldier's  wife,  my  poor  child,  and  teach  our 
children  to  love  their  father's  memory." 

Already  had  the  jailer  led  the  children  from  the  apartment, 
and  now,  with  his  key  in  his  hand,  he  stood  impatiently  waiting 
for  the  mother. 

"Go,  Julie,  —  go,  darling!"  whispered  the  Marshal,  as  he 
strained  her  to  his  heart  in  a  last  embrace.  At  length  she 
glided  from  his  arms ;  but  she  turned,  ere  she  reached  the  door, 
and  whispered, 

"Do  not  fear,  dearest;  I  shall  see  the  king,  and  you  will  be 
free  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  free  !  "  cried  the  hero,  as  the  door  rolled  together  on 


ALINE.  397 

its  hinges,  and  shut  out  Julie  from  his  sight  forever ;  "  yes,  free ; 
and  I,  too,  shall  see  the  King  to-morrow ;  but  it  will  be  Him 
before  whom  the  power  of  the  Bourbons  is  as  dust !  "  Aad 
then  a  sense  of  utter,  overpowering  desolation  came  upon  him, 
and  he  sank  back  on  his  pallet,  more  exhausted  by  this  last  inter 
view  with  his  wife  and  children  than  he  had  been  by  five  hun 
dred  battles. 


At  five  minutes  before  ten  the  next  morning,  the  rosy  glow  of 
the  sunshine  flooded  the  king's  drawing-room,  and  fell  upon  the 
pale,  deathly  face  of  a  woman  crouching  at  his  feet,  with  three 
small  children  clinging  to  her  robe. 

0,  how  the  rich  glow  of  the  sunlight  mocked  her  as  she  knelt 
there,  in  her  anguish,  pleading  for  life,  but  for  life !  0,  how 
she  cursed,  in  her  aching  heart,  the  cold,  freezing  French  polite 
ness,  that  could  keep  her  there  in  her  sorrow  and  answer  noth 
ing  ! 

Ah!  there  is  a  cup  of  trouble  for  thee  to  drain,  Julie,  —  sharp, 
bitter  trouble  ;  but  rest  will  come  after  it,  —  sunny  days,  when 
the  past  will  be  but  a  half-forgotten  memory  of  sorrow ;  when 
thou  shalt  be  again  a  bride,  when  other  lips  than  his  shall  press 
on  thine  their  homage  to  thy  beauty,  —  and  what  of  him  ? 


A  proud,  stern  man  stood  alone  among  his  foes.  Long, 
glittering  lines  of  soldiery  were  drawn  up  on  either  side  of 
him,  muskets  were  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  and  in  the  distance 
rolled  the  surging  tide  of  human  beings  hungry  for  death. 

Noble,  free,  unshackled,  he  stood  there,  and  spoke,  with 
34 


398  ALINE. 

his  hand  upon  his  manly  heart,  those  few,  bold  words,  which 
shall  be  remembered  as  long  as  tales  are  read,  or  gallant  deeds 
•re  told : 

"  I  declare,  before  God  and  man,  that  I  have  never  betrayed 
my  country  ;  —  may  my  death  render  her  happy !  Vive  la 
France  !  " 

Then,  gazing  around  over  the  assembled  throng,  his  eye  fell 
on  a  carriage,  drawn  up  at  a  little  distance,  where,  in  mourn 
ing  robes,  with  her  long  veil  thrown  back,  sat  Aline  Went- 
worth.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  gazed  on  that  face,  with 
its  strangely-glorious  eyes,  since  their  last  parting  at  New 
Fork. 

Who  shall  say  whether  it  seemed  to  him  a  ministering  angel, 
or  an  avenging  spirit  ?  Who  shall  say  how  much  of  the  old 
love  awoke  in  the  hero's  heart,  in  that  long,  thrilling  gaze  ? 
Jfe  said  nothing  —  nothing  save  that  one  word,  "her,"  hissed 
through  his  clenched  teeth.  Then,  turning  to  the  soldiers,  he 
calmly  bared  his  noble  breast,  and  cried,  "  My  comrades,  fire 
onjne ! " 

Words  worthy  a  hero, — whose  reply  was  the  flash  of  muskets, 
and  that  brave  heart  was  still  ! 

At  that  moment,  a  shriek,  a  woman's  shriek,  wild,  terrible, 
unearthly,  swelled  upon  the  air,  and  Aline  Wentworth's  proud 
soul  passed  before  its  Judge  ! 

Who  shall  say  whether  his  spirit  called  not  to  hers,  as  it 
winged  its  flight  toward  heaven  ?  Who  shall  say  that  they,  in 
this  life  so  strangely  parted,  met  not  above  ?  Her  woman's 
heart,  strong  in  its  anguish,  strong  in  its  hopeless  love,  could 
beat  no  longer  when  its  idol  ceased  .to  live. 


ALINE.  399 

His  wife  could  live  on,  his  children  could  look  calmly  upon 
the  murderers  of  their  father,  his  comrades  who  had  stood  by 
his  side  in  so  many  battles  could  aim  coolly  at  his  heart; 
but  Aline  Wentworth,  the  strong-minded,  proud,  high-souled 
American  woman,  lived  but  in  his  life,  and  was  faithful  to  the 
"  Bravest  of  the  Brave  "  in  death. 


NOTE.  —  Recent  discoveries  have  induced  a  belief  that  Marshal  Ney 
was,  in  reality,  an  American ,  though  it  suited  his  designs  to  appear  of 
French  parentage.  In  thus  grouping  together  a  few  scenes  from  hia 
private  life,  I  have  but  performed  a  labor  of  love  ;  and  I  offer  its  result 
as  a  humble  tribute  to  a  great  man's  memory. 


BESSIE    GREEN. 


"  0,  WHAT  a  terrible  thing  it  is  to  have  everybody  hate 
me  !" 

The  words  were  childish,  and  the  speaker  was  little  past  her 
tenth  year.  She  was  a  strange-looking  object,  as  she  sat,  in 
the  dim  twilight,  at  the  window  of  an  old-fashioned  farm-house. 

It  was  Thanksgiving  day,  and  the  good  people  of  Ryefield 
were  making  merry,  far  and  wide. 

There  were  bright  fires  upon  the  spacious  hearths,  and  spruce- 
boughs  and  branches  of  asparagus  waved  over  the  red-framed 
looking-glasses,  and  above  the  windows  hung  twigs  of  holly, 
with  their  bright  red  berries. 

But  nowhere  wore  the  spruce-boughs  a  brighter  green,  or 
the  holly-berries  a  deeper  red,  than  in  the  old  farm-house  of 
Grandfather  Morgan,  as  he  was  called,  for  thrice  five  miles 
around. 

In  the  old-fashioned  parlor  there  were  groups  of  happy  chil 
dren  :  young  men  and  maidens,  just  arrived  at  the  awkward 
stage  of  blushes,  and  supererogatory  hands ;  meek-eyed  mothers, 
and  bold,  sturdy-looking  farmers,  in  home-made  trousers  and 
cow-hide  boots. 

On  either  side  of  the  hearth-stone  sat  old  Grandfather  Morgan 
and  his  wife,  and  between  them  the  fire  danced  and  sparkled,  and 


BESSIE   (JREEN.  401 

the  bright  flames  wound  themselves  round  the  ruddy  back-log,  in 
a  thousand  caressing  folds. 

But  one  there  was  to  whose  eye  there  came  no  light,  to 
whose  cheek  there  came  no  flush ;  for  there  was  no  mother's  hand 
to  brush  back  the  heavy  tresses  from  her  brow,  no  mother's  lips 
to  murmur  blessings  over  her,  or  rest  softly  on  her  upturned 
cheek. 

So  there,  in  the  lonely  kitchen,  with  her  young  face  pressed 
closely  against  the  narrow  window-pane,  sat  little  Bessie  Green, 
sometimes  sighing  fitfully,  as  sounds  of  mirth  and  childish  laugh 
ter  floated  to  her  ears,  through  the  half-closed  doors  of  the  other 
room. 

She  was  by  no  means  a  pretty  child.  Her  brow  was  not  par 
ticularly  smooth,  soft  or  low ;  nor  was  her  hair  in  the  least  sim 
ilar  to  braided  sunshine.  Her  eyes  were  not  blue  as  the  Indian 
seas ;  nor  yet  did  her  fair  cheek  flush  like  the  heart  of  a  summer 
rose,  beneath  the  shadow  of  long,  golden  lashes. 

There  was  no  charm  in  her  elfin  features  to  win  your  heart ; 
and  yet,  if  you  believed  in  goblins  and  fairies,  you  would  look 
twice  at  the  almost  unearthly  face,  peering  from  beneath  the 
tangled  masses  of  her  black  hair.  The  hair  itself  might  have 
been  made  passable  by  good  management ;  as  it  was,  her  face 
had  no  recommendation,  save  that  her  wild  black  eyes  were  lit 
by  a  kind  of  bold  fearlessness,  which  all  the  contumely  inciden 
tal  to  her  situation  had  not  been  able  to  subdue. 

And  yet  it  seemed  a  strange  thing  that  one  so  young,  so  inno 
cent,  should  be  so  utterly  alone.     Strange  that  even  Grandfathor 
Morgan's  kind  eyes  grew  stern  as  he  looked  on  her,  and  young 
faces  darkened  as  she  joined  their  circle. 
34* 


402  BESSIE  GREEN. 

Stranger  still,  when  you  knew  that  Grandmother  Morgan  had 
borne  the  poor  child's  mother  beneath  her  heart. 

Amy  Morgan  had  been  called  the  fairest  flower  of  Ryefield, 
from  the  time  she  first  opened  her  blue  eyes  to  the  light  of  a 
midsummer  morning.  Fifteen  summers  had  she  roamed  through 
moor  and  meadow-land ;  fifteen  winters  had  she  sat  by  her 
father's  side,  in  the  fire-shine  at  the  farm-house,  or  the  high- 
backed  pew  at  church,  on  a  Sabbath  day. 

She  was  the  very  impersonation  of  the  spirit  of  gladness ;  and 
yet,  low  down  in  her  soul,  was  a  spring  of  unquiet  waters,  of 
whose  existence  she  had  never  dreamed,  in  the  sunshine  of  her 
innocent  young  heart. 

Flowers  —  fresh,  warm  heart-flowers  —  were  springing  there, 
which  no  hand  had  gathered ;  and  the  wild  tide  of  passion  lay 
hushed  and  still,  like  some  sunny  lake,  which  has  never  mirrored 
the  face  of  mortal. 

But,  like  the  charmed  existence  of  the  sleeping-beauty,  this 
heart-sleep  was  destined  to  have  an  end,  when  there  should  ap 
pear  some  cavalier  daring  enough  to  break  through  the  hedge  of 
thorns,  and  kiss  into  the  warmth  and  life  of  passion  the  untold 
dreams  and  fancies  walking  through  the  shadowy  aisles  of  her 
heart,  like  nuns  through  the  aisles  of  a  convent. 

One  day  she  had  been  out  to  gather  flowers,  when  she  met  a 
stranger  in  the  forest.  You  could  scarcely  have  imagined  a 
fairer  picture  than  was  Amy.  On  the  green  grass  beside  her 
lay  her  simple  straw  hat,  tied  round  with  a  blue  ribbon.  Her 
lap  was  full  of  wild-flowers,  and  she  was  telling,  school-girl  like, 
impossible  fortunes  with  the  leaves  of  a  forget-me-not,  when  her 
reveries  were  interrupted  by  a  rich,  musical  voice.  Looking  up, 


BESSIE   GBEEN.  403 

she  encountered  the  bold  black  eyes  of  the  handsome  stranger. 
He  addressed  her  in  a  strain  of  playful  gallantry,  as  new  as  it 
was  pleasing.  Fairy,  and  sprite,  and  princess,  were  among  the 
high-souuding  titles  with  which  he  dignified  her,  until  at  last  she 
faltered,  between  her  blushes, 

"0  no,  sir,  you  are  mistaken ;  I  am  only  Amy  Morgan,  daugh 
ter  of  the  farmer  who  lives  in  yonder  brown  cottage." 

"  And  I,  sweet  maiden,  —  I  am  only  Clarence  Green,  passed- 
midshipman  in  the  United  States  service ;  so  let  us  sit  down 
upon  this  bank,  and  get  acquainted,  since  we  've  met  here,  on 
the  very  hunting-grounds  of  the  fairies." 

If  Amy  had  been  startled  at  first,  his  respectful  manner,  and 
the  open  glance  of  his  black  eyes,  were  sufficient  to  reassure  her ; 
and  she  sat  by  his  side,  on  the  green  bank,  without  withdrawing 
the  trembling  hand  he  had  prisoned  in  his  own. 

And  there,  for  many  a  summer  day,  they  met,  till  love,  deep 
and  all-absorbing,  took  possession  of  sweet  Amy  Morgan,  till,  at 
her  lover's  bidding,  she  would  have  laid  down  even  life  itself. 
0,  bitter,  in  this  deceitful  world,  is  almost  always  the  recompense 
of  a  love  like  this  ! 

Grandfather  Morgan  frowned  when  he  saw  the  handsome 
stranger  wandering  by  Amy's  side  over  the  fields,  and  lifting 
her  slight  form  over  the  swollen  brooks  ;  but  Amy  was  his  dar 
ling,  and  the  expression  of  his  dislike  was  suppressed. 

"  Next  month,  Amy,  when  the  fruit  gets  heavy  and  falls 
down,  and  the  ripe  peaches  blush  in  the  autumn  sunshine,  you 
shall  be  my  bride,"  whispered  Clarence  Green,  as  he  sat  by 
Amy's  side. 

And  then,  with  whispered  words  of  endearment  and  supplica- 


404  BESSIE   QEEEN. 

tion,  he  won  her,  who  already  loved  and  trusted,  to  give  him  all 
that  woman  can  give,  and  more  than  she  can  give  without  dash 
ing  every  drop  of  joy  from  the  chalice  of  her  life. 

Clarence  Green  had  no  time  to  prove  whether  the  love  he  had 
professed  was  true,  whether  he  would  have  called  Amy  wife  ere 
the  waning  of  the  autumn  moon ;  for,  in  less  than  one  short  week, 
he  was  thrown  from  the  back  of  his  horse,  upon  a  pile  of  sharp 
stones,  and  killed. 

Amy  uttered  few  words  of  lamentation,  but  the  rose  faded 
from  her  cheek,  and  her  face  grew  thinner  and  more  spiritual. 
Months  had  passed ;  and,  one  night,  toward  the  close  of  Feb 
ruary,  she  stole,  with  her  noiseless  footfall,  into  the  old  kitchen, 
and,  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  her  stern  father,  sobbed  out,  in  broken 
words,  the  story  of  her  shame. 

For  a  moment  Grandfather  Morgan  sat  silent ;  then  his  voice 
broke  forth,  not  in  words  of  pity  or  mercy,  but  in  half-stifled 
curses  on  the  destroyer  of  his  child. 

Tears  of  bitter  agony  coursed  over  Amy  Morgan's  pale  cheeks, 
and,  clasping  her  hands,  she  pleaded,  "  0,  father,  dear  father,  do 
not  curse  the  dead  !  Let  your  anger  fall  on  me,  for  I  deserve  it, 
but  not  on  Clarence  !  If  he  had  lived,  I  should  have  been  his 
wife ;  and  now,  even  now,  would  I  lay  down  this  guilty,  misera 
ble  life,  to  call  him  back  but  for  one  short  hour !  0,  father,  do 
not  curse  him,  or  I  shall  die  here  on  the  stone  hearth  at  your 
feet ! " 

But  the  tide  of  wrath  burned  fiercely  in  the  father's  heart, 
and,  even  as  she  knelt  there,  with  her  hands  clasped  and  the 
tears  streaming  over  her  cheeks,  with  one  blow  of  his  arm  he 


BESSIE   GKEEN.  405 

felled  her  to  the  earth,  and  the  blood  gushed  from  her  parted 
lips,  in  a  warm  red  stream,  over  her  white  garments. 

The  repentant  father  caught  her  to  his  heart,  and  bore  her  to 
her  own  little  room ;  but  when  he  called  on  her  to  forgive  him, 
to  look  on  him  once  more,  she  only  muttered  incoherent  ravings 
of  agony. 

That  night,  amid  the  storm  and  tempest  and  the  fierce  howl  of 
angry  winds,  Bessie  Green  was  born.  Fit  welcome  for  a  child 
of  shame !  Not  even  her  mother's  voice  could  arouse  poor  Amy 
from  the  stupor  into  which  she  seemed  to  have  fallen.  Only 
once  she  spoke  coherently.  It  was  when  they  put  her  baby  in 
her  arms. 

"  It  has  its  father's  eyes,"  she  murmured,  as  she  strained  it  con 
vulsively  to  her  breast.  "  The  world  is  cold  for  thee,  my  mother 
less  one !  I  Ve  nothing  to  give  thee  but  a  name ;  let  them  call 
thee  Bessie  Green !  " 

And  then,  still  holding  her  child,  she  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  in 
prayer;  her  breath  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  and  her  soul 
passed  forth  upon  the  wing  of  the  tempest,  to  the  throne  of  Him 
who  said  to  one  of  old  time,  "  Go,  daughter ;  sin  no  more !  " 

Bitter  was  the  repentance  of  Farmer  Morgan  over  the  grave 
of  his  dead  child;  strange  that  it  softened  not  his  heart  toward 
the  living. 

But  no ;  the  little  Bessie  looked  on  them  with  her  father's 
eyes,  and  scarcely  the  mother's  blood  which  flowed  in  her  veins 
kept  her  from  being  the  object  of  hatred,  as  she  surely  was  of 
dislike.  When  Grandmother  Morgan  looked  at  her,  the  sweet 
face  of  her  Amy,  with  its  golden  curls,  seemed  to  arise  in  con- 


406  BESSIE  GREEN. 

trast  to  the  pale,  still  child,  with  her  elf-locks  and  gypsy-like 
eyes. 

Bessie  never  played  like  other  children.  Sometimes  she  would 
watch  the  wind-driven  clouds,  sometimes  hold  a  feather  up  to  be 
swayed  by  the  breeze,  sometimes  read  by  the  firelight  strange 
tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  that  no  one  knew  how  she  had  con 
trived  to  pick  up.  But  her  dearest  pleasure  was  to  steal  out  to 
her  mother's  grave,  where  a  white  cross  had  been  raised,  bearing 
no  inscription  but  that  sweet  name,  AMY,  and  weep  there  with 
her  lips  pressed  to  the  cold  marble,  calling  on  the  dead  by  every 
endearing  title  that  she  could  recall. 

She  had  grown  up  entirely  unaccustomed  to  be  loved  or  petted ; 
and  yet  she  felt  her  loneliness  keenly,  this  gay  Thanksgiving 
night,  with  so  many  young  and  happy  hearts  around  her. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  in  the  dimly-lighted  kitchen,  with  her 
face  pressed  to  the  window ;  and  then,  starting  up,  she  stole  away 
into  her  own  little  room,  up  stairs.  The  moon  had  risen  now,  and 
by  its  light  she  took  from  her  pine  bureau  a  gold  locket,  contain 
ing  the  blended  hair  of  both  her  parents,  and  fastened  it  around 
her  neck. 

Then,  wrapping  herself  in  her  shawl,  she  stole  out  into  the 
keen,  frosty  air  of  the  winter  evening.  The  snow  had  fallen 
heavily  the  night  before,  and  it  lay  now  upon  the  ground,  some 
times  in  drifts,  sometimes  in  broad,  white  sheets. 

But  onward  sped  the  poor,  lonely  child,  over  bank  and  hollow, 
until  at  last  she  reached  the  village  church-yard,  and  knelt  beside 
her  mother's  grave,  with  her  lips  pressed  against  the  cold  head 
stone. 

For  a  half-hour  she  continued  kneeling  there,  sobbing  out  hei 


BESSIE   GEEEN.  407 

love  and  grief;  and  then,  at  last,  she  started  and  hurried  away, 
but  in  a  direction  opposite  to  her  grandfather's  farm-house.  The 
one  purpose  was  strong  in  her  mind,  to  escape  from  such  coldness 
and  misery. 

The  next  morning  Bessie  Green  was  missed  from  the  old  home 
stead.  A  few  inquiries  were  made  for  her ;  but  the  search  was 
neither  active  nor  long  sustained,  and  in  a  few  days  her  fate  had 
nearly  ceased  to  be  an  object  of  wonder  or  anxiety. 


Ten  years  had  passed ;  and  one  afternoon,  late  in  the  winter, 
the  village  sewing-society  had  assembled  at  Grandfather  Mor 
gan's. 

The  usual  topics  of  village  interest  had  been  discussed.  It  had 
been  "  allowed  "  that  "  Anna  Ellis'  new  silk  dress  was  the  most  ex- 
travagantest  thing  ever  seen  in  those  parts ;  "  and  that  it  was  "  a 
burnin'  shame  for  that  Anna  Ellis  to  have  sich  a  dress,  when 
everybody  in  Ryefield  knew  her  father  was  only  a  poor  black 
smith,  and  she  herself  put  on  the  airs  of  a  city  young  lady." 

Then  it  had  been  decided  that  Charlotte  Lincoln  had  turned 
off  'Squire  Knight's  son,  because  he  was  seen  coming  out  of  the 
tavern  on  a  Sunday  night. 

The  gossip  of  the  village  having  been  consummated,  a  lady 
present,  who  had  been  visiting  in  New- York,  remarked  that  she 
had  there  heard  the  distinguished  vocalist  Clara  Fisher,  and  en 
grossed  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  in  a  description  of  melodies 
which,  according  to  her  account,  were  but  little  inferior  to  those 
in  the  Swedish  legend,  where  Father  Alfus  passes  a  century, 


408  BESSIE  GREEN. 

thinking  it  but  a  day,  as  he  listens  to  the  song  of  the  bird  of 
Paradise. 

.  Great,  therefore,  was  the  surprise  of  the  good  people  of  Bye- 
field,  when,  at  their  next  sewing-society,  it  was  announced,  by  the 
same  indisputable  authority,  that  the  illustrious  vocalist,  at  whose 
concerts,  it  was  confidently  reported,  a  hundred  dollars  had 
been  paid  for  a  single  seat,  was  coming  to  give  a  free  concert, 
her  last  for  the  season,  in  the  old  Presbyterian  church,  in  their 
own  humble  village. 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  report  was  confirmed  by  the  arrival 
of  an  orchestra,  and  the  putting  up  of  some  printed  handbills. 

Everything  having  been  made  ready,  the  lady  herself  came 
also.  Dressed  in  black  and  closely  veiled,  she  was  .handed  by 
her  servant  from  her  travelling-carriage,  and  up  the  steps  of  the 
only  hotel  of  which  the  village  could  boast. 

Her  meals  were  served  in  her  own  room,  by  her  own  servants ; 
and  though  everybody  was  at  the  church  a  half-hour  before  the 
appointed  time,  yet  the  singer  was  not  seen,  until,  at  seven  o'clock 
precisely,  she  stepped  from  behind  the  curtain,  and  walked  forth 
upon  the  stage ;  how  and  when  she  came  there  being,  to  this  day, 
a  mystery  to  the  good  people  of  Byefield. 

She  was  habited  in  a  close-fitting  robe  of  black  velvet,  cut 
low  in  the  neck.  Her  shoulders  seemed  fair  as  statuary,  as  they 
shone  through  the  scarf  of  illusion  lace  which  enveloped  her 
figure  like  a  mantle  of  dew-drops.  Her  hair  was  looped  back 
in  heavy  braids,  and  in  its  folds  nestled  a  single  japonica.  Her 
features  were  regular,  but  you  could  scarcely  tell  what  was  their 
contour ;  for,  in  looking  at  her,  one  noticed  nothing  but  those 
dark  eyes  —  eyes  which,  having  been  once  seen,  would  haunt  your 


BESSIE   (JREEN.  409 

dreams  for  many  a  night,  and  could  never  again  be  forgotten. 
But  when  her  voice  burst  upon  the  air,  in  a  strain  of  low. 
thrilling  sweetness,  earth  itself  was  forgotten  in  a  dream  of 
heaven ! 

She  had  chosen,  for  the  most  part,  simple,  touching  ballads, 
such  as  "  Auld  Robin  Gray,"  and  Dunn  English's  song  of  "  Ben 
Bolt ;  "  but  when  at  last  she  concluded  the  entertainment  with 
"  Allan  Percy,"  faintly  warbled,  she  received  from  the  audience, 
not  enthusiastic  cheers ;  not,  as  in  her  southern  concerts,  bouquets 
of  exotics  knotted  round  with  diamonds  ;  but  the  richer  tribute 
of  tears,  and  sighs,  and  stifled  sobs. 

Meekly  she  bowed  her  graceful  head,  with  the  tear-drops  rest 
ing  on  her  lashes,  and  passed  behind  the  curtain.  Slowly,  half 
sadly,  the  people  rose,  as  if  under  the  spell  of  an  enchantress ; 
and  thus  ended  Clara  Fisher's  concert  at  Ryefield. 

The  next  day,  the  orchestra  and  the  instruments  and  the 
travelling-carriage  disappeared,  and  it  was  supposed  the  veiled 
lady  had  accompanied  them. 

That  evening  Grandfather  and  Grandmother  Morgan  sat  alone 
before  their  brightly-blazing  fire,  their  chairs  drawn  close  to 
gether.  They  had  been  talking  of  the  previous  evening's  enter 
tainment,  and  Grandmother  Morgan  said  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
the  angels  in  heaven  were  singing  in  chorus. 

"  Wife,"  whispered  the  old  man,  as  he  pushed  his  chair  a  lit 
tle  nearer  hers,  "  did  the  singer's  voice  remind  you  of  any  you 
ever  heard  before  ?  "  and  he  bent  his  lips  close  to  her  ear. 

"  Amy,"  gasped  the  old  woman,  from  between  her  closed 
teeth. 

35 


410  BESSIE   GREEN. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  word  had  been  spoken  between  them 
for  years,  and  it  seemed  like  the  opening  of  a  coffin. 

"  Yes,  Amy,"  answered  the  old  man ;  "  her  voice  seemed 
strangely  like  that  of  our  poor  dead  girl." 

Then,  for  a  time,  there  was  silence  between  them.  At  last  the 
old  woman  said, 

"Husband!" 

"Well,  wife?" 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  mayhap,  we  did  n't  treat  that  poor  child 
Bessie  as  well  as  we  ought.  She,  poor  thing,  was  not  to  blame 
for  her  father's  misdeeds,  and  we  ought  to  have  been  all  the 
kinder  to  her  because  she  was  lonesome-like.  I  wish  I  could 
know  where  she  is,  before  I  die." 

"  Wife,"  answered  the  old  man,  "  it 's  just  twenty  years  to-night, 
since  Amy  died.  We  shall  sleep  beside  her  long  before  twenty 
more  years  have  passed." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  light  tap  on  the  outer  door,  and 
the  singer,  Clara  Fisher,  stood  before  them.  Drawing  a  chair 
to  the  fire,  she  said,  in  a  singularly  musical  tone,  while  her  face 
was  turned  from  the  light,  "  You  had  a  grandchild  once,  named 
Bessie  Green.  May  I  tell  you  of  her,  or  do  you  hate  her  name 
even  now  ? " 

"0,  tell  us,  tell  us !  "  cried  both  at  once,  with  trembling  eager 
ness  ;  and  Grandfather  Morgan  added,  "  We  have  been  unjust  to 
the  poor  child ;  God  grant  we  may  have  her  forgiveness  before 
we  die ! " 

The  singer's  voice  was  husky  when  she  commenced  to  speak; 
but  it  soon  grew  clear  and  strong. 

"  Thanksgiving  night,"  she  said,  «  Thanksgiving  night,  a  little 


BESSIE  GKEEN.  411 

more  than  ten  years  ago,  this  poor  child,  Bessie  Green,  sat  weep 
ing  by  your  kitchen  window.  There  was  light  and  life  around 
her ;  but  no  one  seemed  to  remember  her  existence,  and  she  was 
very  desolate.  At  last  she  went  forth  into  the  cold  night  air, 
with  but  one  purpose  in  her  childish  heart,  to  steal  away  from 
the  mirth  and  joy  around  her.  She  wandered  on,  on,  until  at 
last,  when  it  seemed  as  if  her  trembling  limbs  could  bear  her 
weight  no  longer,  she  met  a  kind  physician  returning  homeward 
from  a  midnight  ride.  The  moon  shone  down  upon  her,  full  and 
clear,  and  the  good  man  stopped  his  horse,  at  the  sight  of  the 
little  figure  tottering  through  the  drifting  snow. 

"  '  Where  are  you  going,  my  little  one  ? '  he  asked,  kindly.  — 
1  Anywhere,  sir,'  was  the  reply.  '  I  don't  know  where,  myself.'  — 
'  Are  you  not  very  tired  ?' — '  Yes,  sir,  very.' — '  Would  you  like  to 
ride  home  with  me  ? ' — '  0,  thank  you,  yes,  sir ! '  and  the  strong, 
kind  arms  lifted  her  upon  the  horse,  and,  clasping  the  stranger's 
neck,  she  fell  fast  asleep  as  she  rode  away. 

"  He  would  have  brought  the  child  back  to  you ;  but  she  prayed 
so  earnestly  to  remain,  that  he  ceased  his  persuasions,  and 
whispered  to  his  meek-eyed  wife,  as  he  looked  on  his  own  six 
hungry  boys,  '  God  will  provide  for  them,  dear  love ! ' 

"  In  the  early  spring  there  came  to  the  little  cottage  an  old 
college  friend  of  the  doctor's.  The  stranger  was  a  celebrated 
musician,  and,  one  day,  hearing  Bessie  singing  to  herself,  he 
said  that,  as  surely  as  the  great  Father  had  given  to  every  one 
of  his  creatures  a  proper  vocation,  music  was  hers ;  and  he  offered 
to  take  her  with  him,  and  have  her  instructed. 

"  Dr.  Maitland  called  her  to  his  side.  '  Hard  as  't  will  be  to 
part  with  you,  my  Bessie,'  he  said,  '  I  think  it  best  that  you 


412  BESSIE   GREEN. 

should  go.  But  we  will  never  send  our  little  girl  away ;  do  as 
you  please.' 

"  For  a  while  the  poor  child  hesitated ;  she  was  loved  at  Mait- 
land  cottage,  and  to  her  love  brought  a  strange  blessedness ;  but 
her  child-heart  comprehended  that  it  was  best  to  go,  and,  timidly 
raising  her  dark  eyes,  she  placed  her  hand  in  that  of  Ernest 
Fisher. 

"  He  gave  her  a  thorough  musical  education  ;  and  when  he  died 
bequeathed  to  her  his  name  and  his  renown,  all  he  had  to  bestow. 
She  went  before  the  public,  with  the  one  purpose  warm  in  her 
heart,  of  winning  wealth  and  fame,  that  you  might  love  her ;  for 
I,  dear  parents,"  —  and  she  sank  on  her  knees  before  them,  —  "I 
am  Bessie  Green  !  In  every  triumph,  my  heart  has  longed  for 
love,  the  pure,  sweet  love  of  kindred.  I  have  wealth  and  fame 
now ;  all,  all  are  yours,  —  only  bless  me  once,  and  call  me  your 
dear  child  before  I  die  !  " 

But  the  voices  were  choked  with  tears  that  would  have  mur 
mured  blessings  on  her,  and  the  hands  trembled  that  were  laid 
upon  her  bowed  head.  At  last,  they  sank  upon  their  knees  beside 
their  beautiful  child,  and  together,  in  the  silence,  they  prayed  — 
the  reunited ! 


Phillips,  Sampson  and  Company 's  Publications. 

THOUGHTS  AND  THINGS 
AT    HOME    AND    ABROAD. 

BY 

ELIHU  BURRITT, 

"THE    LEAKNED    BLACKSMITH." 


WITH    A 

HANDSOMELY  ENGRAVED  PORTRAIT, 

AND  A 

mmnx  to  Mm  S0toitt. 


In  one  volume,  duodecimo,  400  pages.    Price  $1. 


The  writings  of  this  eminent  philanthropist  are  marked  by  great  vigor  aud  clearness, 
and  by  singular  felicity  of  illustration.  The  efforts  he  has  made  in  behalf  of  Peace, 
Cheap  Ocean  Postage,  Temperance,  and  kindred  causes,  cannot  fail  to  secure  a  large 
cumber  of  readers  for  this  volume. 


THE   CRITICAL  WEITINGS 

0  F 

THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD, 

LATE    JUSTICE    OP    THE    COUKT    OP    COMMON    PLEAS,    LONDON.  ' 

WITH    A    FINELY    ENOKAVED    PORTRAIT. 

In  one  volume,  octavo.    Price  $1.25. 


WEITINGS  OF  THE  LATE  PBOFESSOR  WILSON. 


THE  RECREATIONS  OF  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

WITH    A    PORTBAIT. 

"  In  their  kind,  as  truly  amazing  and  as  truly  glorious  as  the  romances  of  Scott."  — 
Howitt. 

'  -«_ 


Phillips,  Sampson  and  Company's  Publications. 


SUNNY  MEMOEIES 


O  H.E3I03ST 

&  §00&  0f  totals, 


MRS.  H.  BEECHER  STOWE, 
«fl^ 

AUTHOR  OF  "UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN." 


In  2  volumes,  duodecimo, 
PROFUSELY  ILLUSTRATED  WITH  HIGHLY  FINISHED  WOOD  ENGRAVINGS, 

FROM    DESIGNS    BY    BILLINGS. 


The  publishers  are  aware  that  they  need  do  no  more  than  to  announce  this  work,  for 
the  thousands  who  have  read  "  Uncle  Tom"  will  welcome  any  new  production  from  the 
eame  pen.  Yet  it  is  but  just  to  say  that  these  volumes  are  written  in  the  author's  hap 
piest  vein ;  and  that  they  would  have  created  a  great  sensation,  and  would  have  met 
with  a  very  large  sale,  if  published  anonymously. 

The  public,  who  have  been  wearied  with  the  perusal  of  countless  books  of  travel  taking 
the  same  beaten  paths,  will  be  surprised  at  the  freshness  and  absorbing  interest  with 
which  this  gifted  author  has  invested  the  subject.  From  the  voyage  to  the  return,  the 
reader  follows  her  guidance  with  unquestioning  delight. 

P* 

Will  be  issued  eartu  in  June. 


Phillips,  Sampson  and  Company's  Publications. 


NEW     SERIAL     NOVEL, 

BY 

PAUL  CREYTON, 

ADTHOR  OP  "FATHER  BBIGHTHOPES,"  " BURRCLIJ'P,"  ETC. 

« 


efts     GO. 

Publish,  in  semi-monthly  numbers  of  36  pages  each, 
A     STORY     BY      PAUL      CREYTON, 

ENTITLED 

MARTIN    MERRIVALE, 

HIS   X    MARK. 


toiij 

FROM  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS  BY  BILLINGS  AND  OTHER  ARTISTS. 


To  be  completed  in  about  fifteen  numbers. 


The  principal  character  in  the  novel  is  an  ambitious  youth  from  the  country,  who, 
coming  poor  and  inexperienced  to  the  city,  attempts  to  earn  a  livelihood  and  to  win  a 
name  in  literary  pursuits.  In  following  his  varied  fortunes,  the  author  will  give  sketches 
of  life  and  society,  drawn  with  a  free  hand,  with  touches  of  humor  and  satire,  and  with 
vigorous  strokes  portraying  the  tragedy  of  human  passion. 

No  young  author  in  America  has  had  a  greater  number  of  readers  than  "  Paul  Crey- 
ton."  The  works  by  which  he  is  most  widely  known  are  read  with  delight  by  persons  of 
all  classes  and  ages  ;  for  his  fidelity  to  nature,  and  the  charm  of  every-day  life  which 
surrounds  his  pictures,  appeal  to  every  heart.  His  style  is  at  once  easy  and  forcible  ; 
an  atmosphere  of  the  purest  moral  sentiment  pervades  his  writings  ;  and  his  sympathies 
are  ever  with  the  humble,  the  generous,  and  the  true. 


Pkillijjs,  Sampson  and  Company's  Pziblications. 

A    WORK    OF    GREAT     INTEREST! 
JUST    PUBLISHED. 


HISTORY 

OP  THE 

PROTESTANT  CHURCH  IN  HUNGARY, 

FROM 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  REFORMATION  TO  1850. 

•WITH  EEFEEENCE  ALSO  TO  TKANSYLVANIA. 


TRANSLATED   BY 

REV.    J.    H .     C  R  A  I  O ,    D  .  D  . , 

HAMBURG. 

WITH  AN   INTRODUCTION, 

BY    J.    H.    MERLE    D'AUBIQNE,   IX  D., 

PRESIDENT  OS  THEOLOGICAL  SCHOOL,  GENEVA. 


Comprised  in  one  volume,  duodecimo,  of  500  pages.    Price  $1.25. 


Extract  from  tlie  Introduction,  "by  J.  H.  Merle  D'Aubigne. 

"I  wish  to  recommend  the  narrative  to  the  notice  of  all  friends  of  Protestant  faith. 
No  complete  history  of  the  church  of  God  in  Hungary  has  as  yet  been  published."  "  The 
work  that  we  now  offer  to  the  public  ought,  therefore,  to  be  considered  worthy  of  attention, 
were  it  only  for  its  novelty ;  but  more  particularly  so  on  account  of  the  labor  that  has 
been  bestowed  on  its  composition.  The  author  is  a  man  possessed  of  enlightened  piety, 
Bound  judgment,  integrity,  faithfulness,  and  Christian  wisdom,  —  qualities  well  calculated 
to  inspire  perfect  confidence.  He  has  obtained  his  materials  from  the  most  authentic 
sources.  Government  edicts,  convent  protocols,  visitation  reports,  and  official  corre 
spondence,  have  all  been  consulted  with  scrupulous  attention,  as  is  proved  by  the  numer 
ous  quotations  he  cites.  He  has  thus  sought  to  place  the  authenticity  of  his  book  on  au 
indisputable  basis,  and  at  the  same  time  to  render  it  impervious  to  the  shafts  of  hostile 
criticism." 

Orders  from  "the  tradt  respectfully  solicited. 

- 

- 

• 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
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Form  L9-50m-4,'61(B8994s4)444 


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